


we'll live to tell the tale

by FlyMeHome



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Trauma, this is soft I promise, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 57
Words: 145,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26628037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyMeHome/pseuds/FlyMeHome
Summary: in which harry gets more invested in a certain ocean boy than he had initially planned, and somehow he lands himself in the eye of the storm. it's soft, though. so soft that it engulfs him in its warm embrace, and he realizes; there is more to louis than a prickly façade. it's something that he found himself enchanted by.TW // mentions of ed, self-harm, self-worth issues, trauma, history of sexual abuse
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 162
Kudos: 98





	1. from the beginning, i guess

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING; please check tags, they will be updated when more stuff is added. 
> 
> please, please, please take care of yourselves and stay safe.

meeting his eyes for the first time was like suddenly being engulfed by high tide. a very simple moment, the way he was slightly timid, looking away before looking back—though it seems cheesy, harry could sense something about the boy right away. they met in the bathroom of a shitty fast food place that smelled of urine and smoke.

the boy, whose name harry would find out weeks later, had stuck in the back of harry’s mind. even though they had never spoken, never interacted before or after that sole incident, for some reason, harry could not erase the memory of those eyes that reminded him of the salty seaside breeze.

harry and the ocean boy (whom harry had named in his head after the color of his eyes, specifically after the beaches he had seen in italy) crossed paths again in the bathroom of a nearby bar. except this time the ocean boy’s eyes were red and swollen, and he couldn’t breathe.

even as he was hyperventilating, harry took a split second extra before rushing to his side because he was so captured by the boy’s beauty. there was something so tragic, so perfect, so gut-wrenchingly _painful_ about the boy in front of him. something so obviously broken.

“hey, mate, are you okay? shit, probably not the right thing to say because obviously not…” harry stuttered, struggling to find the right words, “is there anything i can do? water? may i come closer to you, or would that be too overwhelming? fuck, can you even hear me?”

much to harry’s dismay, the ocean boy was unresponsive. lost in his breathing, lost in his head, lost in what seemed like his own corner of the universe that he had conjured up just for himself, a universe with no oxygen, no water, no joy.

it wasn’t until harry had no choice but to wrap his arms around this stranger at a bar to keep him from hitting his head when he blacked out when the boy looked back up at him. and once again, harry found himself lost in _blueblueblue._

but this revelation was short-lived as the boy’s eyes fluttered shut and his entire weight (which was not much at all) fell into harry’s arms. it was then when harry noticed that shivers were still racking the boy’s body, despite his unconsciousness. his originally feathery hair was matted down into something much more messy, sticky, and greasy. but he still looked like an angel. to harry, at least.

only a couple minutes had passed before the boy came to, still in harry’s arms, bewildered at the situation he had found himself in.

“holy shit, you scared me,” harry whispered, as his voice had failed him from all the alcohol and nervousness that had come as a side effect of this odd night. “are you okay?”

the ocean boy took a deep, shaky breath as he stood up, smoothing himself out, and gave harry a sarcastic chuckle. “buzzing, lad. sorry you had to see me like that. pretty rude of me to do something like that in such a public place.”

“no. don’t apologize, i understand. are you feeling better though, really? be honest with me. i did just hold you until it felt like my arms were gonna fall off after all. might as well tell the truth.”

the boy’s expression flashed a bit of hurt, almost unnoticeable, completely so to the normal eye, but harry had caught it (later on he would call this his loubear-mood-senser).

“you didn’t have to. no one asked you to do anything,” he boy snapped as he turned around. “now bugger off, will ya? i’m getting out of here.” a few steps following this statement, though, he wobbled and had to lean against the tile wall for stability.

“you don’t look like you’re in any state to go anywhere.”

“none of your concern. i’ll be fine.” this time, it wasn’t anger that burned in the boy’s eyes, but emptiness. “’ve always been. fine.”

“did you come here alone? by train? by car?”

“for someone that complains about my weight, you sure act like a nosy brat. some moral hero you are, a sanctimonious shitter, saving a guy who had a panic attack on the bathroom floor of some dumpster for a bar."

harry then realized his mistake. to struck him that it was that comment that set the ocean boy off, and it was then when he realized how physically _frail_ he was. like you could snap him in half with just a gust of wind. “it was a joke. you were actually very light, to a worrying extent. i just…” he trailed off. “i just thought you were pretty fit and wanted to help you out, is all. if you want space i’m fine with that. but if i could get your number, that’d be nice too.”

the ocean boy was taken aback, to say the least. it was a moment of shock followed by relief, followed by amusement. more of the boy’s expressions that harry had made sure to burn into his memory. “if you wanted to hook up, you should have just said so from the first place. who even are you?”

“harry. harry styles. i… i don’t normally do this kind of thing,” he sighed, and he really didn’t. harry had come here with old friends, friends that loved partying, that loved women, and begged him to tag along. now that they went their separate ways after high school, it was rare for them to be able to settle on a time and place for anything. “i came here with some other guys. not really used to this partying thing. went to take a wee and here you were.”

“okay, well…” the boy looked confused and so, so awkward, like he wasn’t used to being hit on so directly (he wasn’t), which harry thought to be a crime as well as a gift from the gods for him. the boy was so beautiful; why didn't more people see that? but if more people did, he wouldn’t be looking at the person in front of him now. “i mean, i’m here alone. i don’t really do hookups but i’m open for one, i guess. could use a little something to forget about life.”

at this, harry cracked the biggest smile that the boy thought wasn’t even possible. with his pretty green eyes and pretty brown hair and pretty little dimples. maybe this wasn’t about to be so bad.

“sick. i’ll drive you to my place. what was your name again?”

“ah, bad manners of me to ask for your name without telling you mine. louis. it’s louis. louis tomlinson,” he stuttered, slightly embarrassed. “maybe after a few more drinks?”

“i don’t see a problem with that, lou. let’s do it. my treat.”

“it’s louis.”

“i know.”

harry looked so giddy and excited at this, it reminded louis of a child, of what it was like to feel things so honestly and of being young and fearless again. of course, harry was not that much younger, but he felt lifetimes away. thinking about it made louis feel so small again, but not in the youthful way. in the “i-hate-myself-and-i’m-tired-of-feeling-like-this” way.

harry sauntered out of the bathroom, but louis wasn’t necessarily dragging his feet. after all, a cute man had just asked him to shag. what could be better?

they both got drinks, harry a sugary cocktail that made louis shudder thinking about consuming himself (though, of course, it looked lovely with harry, golden liquid matching his golden skin, golden soul), while louis simply got a vodka soda.

after some mundane chatter about their lives, and harry tiptoeing around the elephant in the room, louis casually brought it up not only because he felt the tension in the air, but also he was beginning to trust harry, despite every signal in his brain telling him to turn around.

“so, you’re not going to ask me why?”

“why, what?” harry said stupidly with that stupid deep voice of his, despite being fully aware of what the other boy meant.

“don’t ‘why, what’ me, styles. you know. the bathroom thing.” 

so harry only smiled (that pretty smile of his), and gave a knowing shake of the head. “i figured you’d bring it up when you were comfortable. i don’t want to push you.”

“okay. yeah. good. i mean- i appreciate that. yeah. thanks.” louis stuttered in chunks.

“are you ready then? comfortable, i mean, to tell-“

before harry could even finish, louis cut him off, stiffly. “no. i was just wondering. most people are nosier, i guess. i did call you a nosy brat earlier, and i’m sorry. jumped to conclusions, on that one.”

“it’s alright. i know you were startled.” this reminded harry of the conversation they had earlier, of how the hair on the back of louis’ neck stood up when he joked about him being heavy. “you’re beautiful, you know that, right? really. really, really beautiful. hot, too.”

louis rolled his eyes, chuckling bitterly. “you just want to get in my pants. not gonna work, harry. you’re already in so you don’t have to try to woo me anymore. calm down.”

harry wrinkled his forehead in response. “i mean it though, you really are. believe me.”

louis was starting to look truly irritated and hurt, which in turn felt like tiny little prickles in harry’s chest. he knew something was wrong before, but even more so now. “drop it. let’s go to your place, yeah?”

even though harry wanted to fight back, to grab the boy by the face and scream at him until he understood how perfect he was, to kiss him right then and there, not stopping until he knew that, he just sighed. “okay, yeah. my place it is.”


	2. we can't see any stars tonight, but that's okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back at harry's place, it feels like a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly suggestive content at the beginning but nothing intense. 
> 
> stay safe, take care of yourselves. x

when harry’s shirt came off and the two were ready to go through the motions, louis urged harry that the lights stay off. harry was the type to need a night light to remain comfortable, though, so the two had to make do with just a night light in the corner, shining dimly (though still much too bright for louis’ comfort), not exactly lighting up the room but rather filling it with a warm, yellow tint. harry thought it was nice, soft. but seeing louis’ unease made his stomach flip just a bit before he decided this was just a weird quirk of the ocean boy’s, probably, just like his blue eyes with so much depth it seemed like a different dimension—nothing to worry about. so he didn’t ask much of it.

the two of them, unsurprisingly, fit together like puzzle pieces. and not in the sexual way—the manner which their arms fit around each other, how louis’ hands slithered their way right to the small of harry’s back. so when harry took to unbuttoning the older boy’s pants, and he felt him stiffen, he realized right away and stopped.

“you sure you want to do this?”

“yeah.” louis nodded, shakily. “go for it, love.”

he hid his hands behind his back to keep harry from seeing that they were shaking, but bless him, he saw everything about his ocean boy. “we should stop.”

louis bit his bottom lip, looking down in almost-shame, wanting to fight harry back, but all his instincts screaming at him to pull away completely. “i- sorry… i just- i thought, i thought that i would be okay. y’know? i thought i was ready. if i knew that i would fuck up like this i wouldn’t have-“

“hey,” harry interrupted the self-deprecating words tumbling out of louis’ mouth like they were used to being there, “it’s okay. i don’t want to fuck someone who is uncomfortable, anyway. it’s a turn off, you know? so don’t feel too bad about it. i like being around you for more than just sex anyway.”

“harry, you don’t even know me. we both know what your goal was. stop trying to make me feel better and accept my apology.”

the way shame bubbled up in louis’ throat hurt harry the most. it wasn’t his unsatisfied boner, it wasn’t his wallet from paying for drinks, it wasn’t his head from getting so wasted in the first place. but the way this beautiful boy, this ocean boy spoke as if he was nothing. “it’s okay. want to watch a movie and cuddle up?”

they settled for _the notebook_ , a classic, one that harry had seen at least ten different times, though it would never get old. because they had both seen it, it was much easier for them to talk.

“god, i hate how they act here! why not just be straightforward about misunderstandings?”

but eventually, conversation pulled past just the movie, and became much more. it turned out, they both had similar music taste and were both in uni. surely, harry thought, even if they had not met that night in the bar the world would have found a way to bring them together anyway.

“my favorite song is _how to save a life_ , by the fray.” louis sighed mistily, “i like the lyrics a lot. i think it’s cool how he could express his feelings in words like that.”

“yeah? have you ever written anything?”

“i have… but, nothing good or serious really. i like writing poems and songs just for the hell of it. gets stuff out of my system, you know? i mean, i’m an english major, but the classes i’ve taken so far doesn’t really get super expressive, and even if they were, i’m sure i would struggle coming clean about anything, anyway. i mean, with the professor probably judging not only our writing, but also our personal life.”

the idea of louis, who already had a way with words in everyday conversation, writing lyrics to a song, excited harry. he wanted to unzip the other boy’s skin and take a peek inside, know his ins and outs. louis really was the type of person you could just sit and watch, listening to the way words fell of his lips so meaningfully, the way his adorable mannerisms shone through the holes of his defense. he was so caught up in watching the boy, the dim light of the television morphing the color of his eyes from an ocean blue to a deeper hue. one that harry didn’t even realize was real color.

“harry? are you listening? bold of you to invite me over, interrogate me, and not even listen,” louis snorted, until his tone dropped into a more somber inflection. “but sorry, i was probably boring you.”

“don’t even start, it’s fine, i like listening to you. just got enchanted by you again, is all.”

“what a flirt, you are, styles. give me a break,” the older boy giggled. and oh god, harry’s heart did more flips in his chest.

“wanna go outside for a smoke?” he finally choked out, deciding that it would calm his hammering heart down. “bonding lad experience y’know, drinking, watching movies, smoking.”

“yeah, i guess we’re basically best friends now.” _friends._ harry wasn’t even upset by this word. to have the privilege of even knowing the boy felt special.

they went out on harry’s balcony, lighting a couple cheap cigarettes, inhaling and exhaling smoke in tandem. and it was perfect. weird, harry thought, for him to feel so comfortable with an absolute stranger. this definitely was not what he had expected when he decided to go to a bar with niall and liam. maybe he should go to bars more often?

the mid-october air was biting at the two boys, chilling in an unpleasantly pleasant way, as harry would often think of it. there were no stars in the sky, despite that fact going against all romantic clichés that the green-eyed boy loved. but somehow, it was still more than anything he could ask for.

as if louis could read harry’s mind, he spoke exactly what they both were thinking at that moment. “this is all i need, i think. nothing more. even if the view sucks, even if we smell of smoke, alcohol, and nerves, it’s this kind of thing that makes getting here feel worth it. like i’m consciously aware that every choice i made leading up to this moment was right, because i feel so safe now.”

harry closed his eyes and beamed quietly. “a philosophical one, aren’t you?” he breathed, as if he weren’t thinking the same exact thoughts. “are you lonely? do you not experience this often?”

normally, louis would recoil inwardly at such a comment, but the two of them were so deep in their own little universe (as well as deeply intoxicated) that neither cared. “no, i suppose not. i mean, i have a best friend. his name is zayn, and i love him a lot. but he’s busy, you know? i long for this kind of serenity but it’s hard for someone who lives such a fast-paced lifestyle. but i’m not lonely, i don’t think, i mean, there are times i feel alone. but don’t we all? and aren’t we all, in the end? so it’s fine really.”

the younger boy knew that louis would never open up like this sober, so he had to take what he could get in the moment. “are you okay?”

louis grinned softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling up and making harry’s heart do somersaults all over again. “never better.”

it wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but it would do for now. so he just put his arm around the smaller boy and relished what they had then, as louis leaned in, clinging onto every second. in case this sort of thing never happened again. they never stay, after all.

but to the both of them, they felt like they had known each other for a lifetime, not a night. _crazy_ , harry thought, _how soulmates work; if they exist, then this was definitely it._


	3. we used to talk about running away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's more than a one night stand, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of triggering content - just ED behaviors. take care of yourself. 
> 
> remember you are worth every second, follow my twitter @louflymehome, my dms are always open x

the two of them somehow meandered back to bed after their smoke break—neither of them really remembered much past that conversation. all harry knew was that when he opened his eyes, he thought it was all a dream and wanted to lull himself back to sleep. he’d recall all the memories from last night and they’d seem so far away, as if they happened to a different person. but he knew that he had to get up and get ready for the day, he was never one to sleep in.

harry turned to the opposite side, and in front of him was all eyelashes and glowing skin. he reached out, gently stroking the sleeping creature’s cheek, confirming that he was real before calling out. “lou?” no response. so again, louder, this time putting his arms around him in a crushing embrace. “louuu?”

a groan escaped from the ocean boy as he slowly came to, finding his face nuzzled in harry’s chest. “what time is it?” he yawned, “what day is it again? what year?”

“whoa there, hold your horses, little one. it’s sunday. hardly 10 in the morning. you shouldn’t have any classes today.”

“just a little longer, then,” louis whispered, closing his eyes. “don’t want to overstay my welcome, though.”

“never,” harry said, almost too quickly. “although i do have work at 3 today. you’re welcome to stay and sleep, though.”

“harold, that’s in 5 hours. i’m not a hibernating bear,” the blue-eyed boy pouted, “i’ll be up in a second.”

“okay, okay. just making sure,” harry paused, “say, what do you want for breakfast? i can make something for the two of us.”

he watched the smaller boy carefully, trying to assess any odd response. but it came out normal and believable, so he decided he was worried for nothing. “i can’t eat that much in the morning, or i’ll get a stomachache. just tea, no milk, no sugar. only the tea packet. nothing else.”

“coming right up, your majesty. heard you the first time,” harry sneered playfully, “i’ll make that right up for you. but i’m going to some eggs or something for myself. you sure you don’t want anything else?”

louis pursed his lips. “positive.” harry couldn't press him any further, so he stayed silent.

so they enjoyed their morning quietly, harry with his cereal and eggs, louis with his hot mug of tea. the two boys basked in each other’s presence, not having to say anything to feel the warmth from the comfort. odd, really. although louis used to do this with zayn all the time as this was simply their dynamic, harry was never able to sit in silence; the awkwardness always consumed him and he’d feel the need to fill the empty space with mindless chatter.

he’d always thought that comfortable silence was overrated, but this was something else.

and morning bled into noon and it was time that louis had to leave. “i don’t want to overstay my welcome,” he said, despite harry’s fruitless protests.

as if louis were waiting for harry to say one last thing, he stood still in the doorway for a few seconds which felt like an eternity to him, so when harry watched, confused, he whispered words hoping the green-eyed boy wouldn’t hear him.

“this is it, isn’t it? it’s over?”

harry let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. so this is what the ocean boy was so worried about. “no, lou. i put my number into your phone last night when you were asleep. you can text me anytime, okay? i’d like to think we had a bit more than just a one-night stand where nothing even happened.”

louis flinched, “i’m sorry. i just wasn’t sure- i-“

“it’s okay. where’s that sassy boy i know?”

“oh, shut up styles. you’re something else, you know that? i don’t want to hear it from you, of all people,” he laughed, tension dissipating as light-hearted air reentered the room. “i’ll get going now, then. have a good one.”

when the door shut and harry successfully saw the older boy off, he collapsed on his old, smelly couch feeling far more well rested than he usually would be after having drowned himself in alcohol and nicotine the night before. it felt nice.

there was something about the boy that worried him, though. he wasn’t able to pry out the reason for the first panic attack on the floor of a bar, and despite knowing it was really none of his business, he couldn’t help but become filled with concern for the boy.

there was nothing he could do but wait for a text, though.

harry would be lying if he said he didn’t expect a text that night, or at least the next morning. but hours turned into days turned into a week and some before anything had actually happened.

he had thought about the ocean boy nonstop—if the period between the time harry had first noticed the boy and the time they truly met each other seemed excruciating, this was ten times more unbearable. louis was like a constant ache in harry’s chest, and he hardly knew the boy. he was whipped and they talked for one night, not even had sex. he begrudgingly came to terms with the fact it was truly a dream, almost angry, bitter, that louis had been the one to ask _harry_ if he would let go after one night, and not even reach back out.

until, of course, harry received a call from a number he didn’t recognize on a wednesday at 9pm.

of course, this had been going on all week; he’d get calls thinking it would be louis and pick up, all excited and hopeful, but t some shitty advert asking him to buy a product. or some church trying to convert him to christianity. so he wasn’t expecting much, but picked up just for the hell of it.

“hello?” he said far more harshly than he had intended. it’d been a hard day at work and he still had several assignments for school to catch up on. when the caller said nothing, he grew irritated. “hello? if it’s nothing, i’m hanging up.”

“…harry?” the voice said weakly, “how- how are you?”

harry wanted to take his words right out of the air and shove them back down his throat as soon as they came out. “why are you calling me, louis? i’m too tired to deal with this right now.”

the words weren’t even that mean, but the coldness that they held made both harry and louis’ hearts bubble up with fear. “sorry, i didn’t know. i can, i can, uh- i can go.” his voice was shaking even harder than the first time they had spoken, and harry wanted to punch himself in the face for being such an asshole.

before he could say anything, the line cut and harry felt the adrenaline rush throughout his body; tiredness having evaporated as if it were never there in the first place. he got the ocean boy’s number now, though, so when he saved the contact he rung him back immediately.

it rang five times before it stopped and he knew that louis was there, on the other side.

“louis?”


	4. everything we felt on that day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry's a worrier, and everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter isn't really triggering at all i don't think
> 
> take care of yourselves x

“louis?” harry asked again, this time more frantically. “you there?”

a long pause, but he could hear the boy breathing. “yeah. i’m here.”

“what’s up?” he said, carefully. “i just got back from work-”

“sorry,” louis responded quickly, barely letting harry finish his sentence. “i meant to get in contact with you earlier. it’s just- i’ve had a busy week.”

 _really?_ harry thought, _so busy i wasn’t worth even a text?_ but he didn’t let the words come out this time—louis’ voice was already shaking like a leaf. when things were calmer though, they would. “yeah, no problem. you good right now, though?” harry dropped his bag to unbutton the first couple of buttons on his shirt while taking off his beanie, plopping down on the smelly couch. he was ready for a long rant from the shaken boy.

there was none, though. “nothing. jus’ wanted to hear your voice is all.” his breathing was still ragged and harry could tell he was trying to hold himself together. he wanted to see what was really wrong, he wanted to know _everything_ about the boy, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. he knew it was too much to pry from a boy he’d known for just a bit over a week, most of which they hadn’t even spoken.

“okay, well… hi.” he forced out, awkwardly. “we should uh, we should hang out sometime.”

“when do you have work this week?” louis sounded a little better, still not himself, but more grounded. “we could do something after classes one day.”

“how about we grab lunch tomorrow? i’m pretty free around that time most days.”

louis’ breath hitched a little bit before he scolded himself and gathered his bearings. “yeah. yeah, that would be nice.”

“okay,” harry smiled, forgetting his stress, forgetting his fatigue, forgetting his anger at louis for dropping off the face of the earth for over a week. “tomorrow, then. it’s a date.”

“alright, harry… goodnight, see you tomorrow.” louis sighed, and sounded much more stable after, almost like a reset, to harry’s relief.

“you sure you don’t need anything right now, lou?” harry quickly added, before louis hung up. “i’m here.”

“i’m fine, harry. thanks. don’t worry about it.”

but he couldn’t help but worry, not when the ocean boy sounded so _distraught._ “louis…”

“i’ll see you tomorrow, okay? now finish the homework i know you’re definitely drowning in and get your ass to bed, haz.” he chuckled weakly, “i don’t want to keep you for any longer.”

harry wanted to protest, but he knew louis was right and didn’t want to keep fighting a losing battle. “okay, i will. night, lou.”

“sleep tight.”

and the line cut, causing harry to deflate deeper in the sofa cushion. despite the worry, despite everything, he was suddenly resisting a dopey smile. he was going to see the beautiful boy again.

when it was time to get ready for their outing, harry had already been awake for several hours. he laughed at himself dryly, because what is he? some grade schooler who can’t sleep the night before christmas? by 8 in the morning, he decided that it was finally okay to text louis to check in.

 **harry** _(sent at 08:01):_ heyyy we up for noon today? H

a few minutes passed before he got a response, which was quicker than he originally anticipated. he wasn’t sure what it was, but louis had not struck him as an early riser.

 **louis:** of course if you’re still down x _(sent at 08:08)_

 **harry:** ok, my house at noon? x _(sent at 08:08)_

 **harry:** i’ll drive us somewhere, it’ll be easier .x _(sent at 08:09)_

 **louis:** ok, see you then xx _(sent at 08:10)_

to say that harry was excited would be an understatement. suddenly, he forgot all about his past problems—the shit from work, from school, family, everything. all he could think about was _louislouislouis_.

the hours passed much more slowly than he would have liked. all harry could do was sit, dig away the omelet he made, and sip his tea, which he had drowned in sugar and milk, in a way that louis would have criticized for no longer tasting like tea anymore. but harry liked it, so that’s how he had always taken his tea.

the time he awaited came around; and slowly he felt his excitement fizzle out into nervousness and worry. remembering louis’ state last night made harry fear what he would find today—the skinny boy who was wasting away? empty eyes, empty cheeks, hollow words? pure, total rejection?

funnily enough, time passed much faster when he let those thoughts consume him—this happened quite often, more so than he would like to admit. harry was a worrier, after all. when it came to others, the tasks he had to complete, whether his actions right now were positively affecting his future or not.

luckily, the sound of the doorbell resonating throughout his apartment snapped him out of the mess of thoughts. some nights, when the unrelenting worry became too much, harry would have to call liam or niall, and they would speak to him softly to comfort him (or normally, to ground him, depending on the type of worry), until things were okay again. and he was endlessly grateful for that.

when harry went to get the door and was met by blue eyes yet again, he felt it all come flowing back to him. or out of him, to put it more accurately—the wind was knocked out of him, and all it took was a glance from the boy. it made him want to throw up a little bit, but somehow the feeling was so addicting; he didn’t want to let this go.

“hi,” louis smiled lightly, “where to next?”

“uh, right. right, i- let me just grab my keys,” harry fumbled through his words, his thoughts mudding up his ability to talk coherently, “then we can leave. i have a place in mind that i’d like to show you. had to be today.”

louis found the younger boy’s breathlessness endearing, and couldn’t help but giggle. “take your time, styles. we got all day, that is, if you don’t have work or anything. all my classes were in the morning today.”

harry stored that bit of information into one of the files in his brained labeled _louis william “ocean boy” tomlinson._ so far, it had everything he’d been told, and a few quirks that even the blue-eyed boy didn’t know he possessed. man, he realized, he is _whipped._

both gathered their bearings, and harry led the other out of his apartment to the garage, where the smell of skunk spray and dampness in the air attacked whoever entered at all angles. louis wasn’t paying attention the day they had met, but harry’s car was so decorated and so _harry_. pale pink mini cooper with a pride-themed air freshener. it smelled of delicate flowers, exactly how harry would smell if he were a scent. a little bit different from the body wash and shampoo he used, but nevertheless, still very harry. this time, sober, louis was able to digest it all. and he was glad to.

calmer, harry revved up the engine after buckling his seatbelt. “let’s get going, shall we?”

the smaller boy only nodded, but he felt more cocoons transfigure into fully-fledged butterflies. if harry was whipped, louis was absolutely gone.


	5. dreamer's corner, ft. autumn leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when skin peels, sometimes it reveals a more vulnerable layer, other times, calluses form and it's much more difficult to see beyond the surface

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// eating disorder behavior!
> 
> stay safe, please. don't read if it'll be hard for you, and my dms are open. twitter is @louflymehome

the drive was only about fifteen minutes, light traffic and everything. it was a nice day outside, the cloudless sky a pleasant blue, as if it weren’t midautumn, but midsummer. the air was dry, a little too much so for louis’ liking but still bearable. the boy’s skin had always been on the drier side—during the winter, he would peel, deeper layers of his skin exposing something much more soft, new, pure. fragile.

harry pulled into the parking lot of a dingy looking café, clearly originally meant to be a baby blue but was beginning to brown from rust. the shingles were intact, but if you were to look a bit more closely, you’d be able to tell they were flaking off.

“we’re here, love.” harry whispered gently, “it’s a nice place, the aura it gives off is really soft.”

louis noticed that there was a large sign at the door, hand-painted in dark black script: _DREAMER’S CORNER_

he didn’t have time to ponder the meaning of those words before harry whisked them both inside the shop. “welcome!” a lady of at least seventy years behind a counter chimed, “oh, harry, you brought a friend today, should have given me the heads up and i would have fixed you both something special.”

harry laughed a velvety laugh, one that louis hadn’t had the privilege to hear before. “no big deal, ms. carpenter. we’re just here to enjoy our afternoon.”

“how many times do i have to tell you to stop calling me that? makes me seem old. i am though, i guess. but just call me sharon.” the lady, all warmth, snow white curly hair, purple jewels at her neck, was so fitting for the atmosphere of the little café. it smelled of blueberry muffins, the walls on the interior were purple and beige, the tables all made of an old but smooth wood. louis relaxed instantly.

“i’ll have my usual. how about you, lou?” harry looked at the ocean boy again, momentarily making both of them stop in their tracks, forgetting the impact that the other had on each of them.

louis sucked in. he had forgotten the entire point of cafes, and the point of going out during a mealtime. for normal people, it was for the food as well as the time spent with others. but for louis, it was pure panic. “i… i guess i’ll have…” he stumbled and hurriedly looked at the menu, a chalkboard hung from the ceiling. “i’ll have a seasonal salad? no dressing, no cheese, please. and a side of tea, no milk or sugar.”

harry furrowed his eyebrows at this. “you sure you don’t want more?” harry probed. somehow, he knew that this was how it would turn out, but he was still frustrated. “you need to fill yourself up a little bit more, you know. growing boy and everything.”

“hazza, i’m 21. i’m not exactly growing anymore, unfortunately,” louis joked, in attempt to lighten the mood. “i had a big breakfast and just had a snack after my classes, don’t worry about it.”

harry wasn’t stupid, he could sense that these were complete and utter lies, but at the moment, he couldn’t exactly argue back—not in front of sharon, not when louis clearly wasn’t comfortable talking about it, not when louis’ voice had sounded so unsteady the night before. so he accepted it again. “okay, i guess.” he paid sharon, who had given him a discount like she always had, winking at harry a little while gesturing to the smaller boy, to which harry had only rolled his eyes.

the two of them chose stools next facing a window to get settled, and their food was brought promptly to them. harry’s order consisted of a cuban sandwich with the side of tomato soup and some more tea, again bathing in sugar and milk.

“do you come here often? you seem to know the lady that works here pretty well.” louis prompted, trying to further ease the tension leftover from their earlier conversation.

“i used to work here, actually,” harry smiled, happy to reminisce. “i baked a lot of the things that this place offers. like, it’s a café with sandwiches and such but there’s a bunch of pastries, as well. i like to think i got pretty good at it before quitting.”

“yeah? why did you quit?”

“oh, life just picked up is all. things got in the way and i figured that i was well-off enough at the time to take a break. when i needed a job it was a lot easier to work on campus, you know? just more convenient and everything.”

louis nodded, smiling while moving bits around in his salad. he’d been eating slowly, mostly shoving his food back and forth in his plate, chewing carefully, but eating nonetheless. it made harry feel a bit better, but not by much.

he took this time really _take in_ the ocean boy properly. he’d been too nervous when he had first rang his doorbell to really pay attention to anything more than the fact that his eyes were the same striking blue as before. he was wearing a tan sweater that drooped off of him a little, as well as tight black jeans and adidas sneakers. a very normal outfit, compared to the copious amounts of jewelry and accessories harry adored. but simplicity was very fitting of the boy—it brought out the distinctiveness of his natural features—wispy hair, defined cheekbones, soft lips, soft eyes. soft.

but harry noticed another change from the day he had first seen louis, to the night at the bar, to now. the boy had begun to look much more feeble, hand holding his fork almost as if it were the as heavy as a bowling ball, a slight, permanent tremor that hadn’t gone away since harry had noticed it before. of course, the younger boy had his suspicions and couldn’t help but make assumptions. it was a topic that he knew louis had intentionally been walking around and making sure harry did not have the time to address.

before he could even think about the weight of his words (a pattern that seemed to show its face quite often in his world), half-formed thoughts began to fall from harry’s lips. “louis, you should… why- why are you like this?”

the other boy’s head snapped up in dismay. “like what?”

deciding he had stepped too far to back out, harry went on. “like… like this. why don’t you eat more?”

the air thickened suddenly, and it became harder for the both of them to breathe. it was like someone had walked in with a vacuum and sucked all the buoyancy out of the room. the october air that had not seemed so cold began to hit them both harder than ever. “what are you talking about, love?” louis pretended that it hadn't affected him at all. “i do, you’ve not even seen me at a mealtime until now, harry.”

he was right, harry figured, coughing awkwardly. there was nothing he could say to argue back to that. “well, i guess so. sorry if that seemed prying. i was just worried, is all.”

“no, harry, i’m fine. it’s not like i’m malnourished or anything.” the ocean boy attempted at jesting. “’s not like i _look_ like i don’t eat.”

he said the latter part under this breath, not meaning for harry to hear, and he almost hadn’t, with chet baker playing in the café’s background. fitting, for a place so filled with warmth and honey. like chet baker’s voice. but nonetheless, harry did catch it. “that’s, that’s not the point, lou. even someone who seems like they’re a healthy weight can be malnourished or disordered. you never know.” he didn’t want to seem condescending, lecturing louis as if he were a child, but it absolutely killed harry to hear the boy he was so infatuated with say things like that about himself. and believing it, above everything.

louis laughed a bitter laugh. “i get it. thanks for caring, curly. but i’m doing proper well. be more concerned with yourself, no? you look like you haven’t slept at all.”

“y-yeah.” harry gave in, not knowing how to further make the boy open up. they’d known each other for hardly any time at all, anyway. it wasn't urgent. “i was too excited to see you today.”

the tension dissipated, and louis let go of the breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. “oh, yeah? you cheeky little bastard. i could say the same for myself.” he cracked a huge smile, one that enchanted harry like it was some sort of hallucinogenic drug, reminding him of the golden sun on the days where he, his mother, and his sister would go on picnics, bathing themselves in warmth and in spring. it was a breath of fresh air, really.

so harry allowed himself to forget it for now. he would do anything, really, to preserve that smile.


	6. it's crazy, how blind one can be toward their own existence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which he closes his eyes and counts to five

they found themselves lost in conversation, this time completely sober and completely present in the moment. it was like they were two children who received a new toy and fixated on nothing but the gleaming new object before them.

harry revealed that he was pursuing music—he wanted to show his feelings to the world through lyrics and instrumentation. louis was currently studying english, though not yet sure what he would do with his degree. at the moment, every sign had pointed him toward law.

“you should just do what feels best. it’s also never too late to change your mind.” harry told him, downing the last of his tea, “i mean, whatever it is, i’m sure you’ll absolutely kill.”

“easy for you to say, curly. you’ve got all the youth, talent, and looks in the world. it’s also just expensive as fuck to change majors. not everyone has that option.”

he had never struggled with finances his entire life, despite the recent misfortunes his family had suffered. harry lived a relatively happy childhood, aside from his father walking out when he was seven. his mother had always been enough for him. “well, i don’t want to act like i know everything because i don’t,” he said carefully, “since i’ve never had to deal with that. but i know that if it’s you, everything will go fine.”

louis grinned fondly at this. what an awkward boy with an awkward way with words. but somehow they always managed to dig deep at his heart, slowly but surely peeling down the walls layer by layer—a laborious, cumbersome task, but after a while, progress could be seen. “perfect little one, aren’t you?” the ocean boy chuckled. “no worries, no flaws, nothing. too good for me, you are.”

harry’s forehead wrinkled at this. he knew that it was all in good humor, but it somehow rubbed him the wrong way. “you know that’s not true, right? i’m human, just like you are. there’s no such thing as someone being ‘too good’ for someone else or any of that.”

“i know, harold. it was just a saying. of course there are things that even the great harry styles could struggle with. but you’re so amazing it’s probably their fault for making you struggle in the first place.”

“don’t flatter me, lou. you’re just as special.”

louis’ smile faltered for a split second at this, which made harry’s heart prickle. he felt tv static coursing through him for a moment, even thinking for a moment that this beautiful boy doesn’t see the good in himself. “oh, shut up, you hardly even know me.”

“i hardly even know you and i already can see how great you are.”

“you just don’t know me well enough to see it all yet.”

“well then i hope you’ll bless me with the privilege of being proved wrong. doesn’t happen often, you know.” harry smirked. he lived for banter. he’s always been a gentle person on the surface, but it always lit a flame in him to be able to argue good-naturedly.

both boys bursted out in laughter. louis wanted this moment to freeze in time, so he could grab it in the air and shove it down into a bottle to store as a keepsake. if sparks flew every time there was chemistry between two people, this café would have burnt down already, with how well harry and louis fit. sparks of golden light were flying everywhere.

they spoke like this for what felt like a lifetime. people say that time passed more quickly when you’re having fun, but really only felt true to an extent. there exists these ethereal moments—calling them moments of enlightenment would hardly be a stretch—where it feels like the world stops for you. it stops and it listens and it cares. and for harry and louis, the other was all that mattered.

when they heard bells ringing from the church a second time during their conversation, both came to realize that they had been babbling about nothing in particular, yet everything in the world, for nearly two hours.

“remind me again, did you have work today? or classes?” louis drawled.

“no,” harry said quickly, too quickly probably, as he hadn’t wanted this day to end just yet, “i don’t. i mean i was planning on going home and studying a bit, practicing a bit y’know? but no concrete plans, no.” he emphasized at the end.

“ah. i see. well…” the ocean boy looked from the table to harry, head still down, making the older one feel like he was being constricted again, but in the best way possible. “what should we do from here?”

“i- um, if you want, we can go back to my place again? i can get some stuff done and we can relax together? like you can just watch a movie or something, get cozy or whatever?” harry paused embarrassedly. “if you want, that is. i don’t want to make you feel obligated or anything. it’s just- i, uh, i had a really good time, so, i mean, if- if you want-“ 

“relax, mate. i’d love to. and you’re not making me feel obligated to do anything.”

harry beamed, reminding louis again of a child that had gotten a new toy or treat. _adorable._ “okay, let’s go then.” harry slapped a bill on the table after looking at sharon, who had been oddly quiet the entire time, not knowing how to interrupt the two who were off in their own little world. she smiled knowingly and nodded. normally, harry would have an extended conversation with her before leaving, about school, family, work, or anything really, but today would have to be an exception.

both boys stood up quickly, harry jittery with excitement, ready to bring the ocean boy home. but momentarily, louis had forgotten the limitations of the state of his body and saw dark, black spots obscuring his vision and had to catch himself against the stool, which luckily was fixed into the ground.

_okay, just close your eyes and count to five, and try again. harry probably didn’t notice anything._

“lou?” the younger boy tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing with concern, giving him that expression louis hated knowing was his fault was there in the first place. “are you okay? do you need anything? what happened?”

“i’m fine, don’t worry about it,” louis responded, but he was still staggering, eyes still shut. “just stood up too fast, is all.”

“have you had enough sleep? enough to eat and drink?”

the ocean boy knew that harry was only trying to care for him, but the pestering, for the third time already today had begun to ruffle him. “i’m fine, i said. stay in your lane, haz. please.”

when harry had flinched at this, louis immediately regretted his words and slapped himself internally for coming across so harshly. “oh… sorry.” the younger boy curled within himself. “just wanted to make sure you were okay, is all.”

“yeah. i know. sorry, i didn’t mean to snap at you like that. that’s on me.”

“n-no problem. let’s get going, yeah?”

so they made their way toward harry’s car again, air seeming to carry a different weight than before. one that was thick with dissent. the older of the two shivered as a gust of wind chilled the town, causing crows to shake their feathers and small animals to burrow deeper in their homes. autumn was quickly morphing into winter, a season that was gray and dark and stiff—one that louis disliked with everything he had. it caused him to move more slowly, on the roads and in his mind, days bleeding into each other, merging into a single unending hell.

the warmth of the car struck the two boys, as if they were sinking in deep water before, the two were finally able to take a true breath.

“harry?” louis tried.

“yes, sunshine?”

“are you mad?” louis continued feebly. “you know, because-“

“no, loubear. i’m not mad. i wouldn’t get mad over that. just taken aback, is all. but it’s not a big deal.” more than anything, the feeling that was bubbling in harry’s chest and nearly boiling over was concern, not anger. the more he watched the other boy, the more reason he had to believe that louis was most certainly not okay. and it scared him when he realized that he had not the slightest hint as to what he should do. he didn’t want to press too far and get pushed out, only to never be trusted again.

“okay. i just wanted to make sure. i didn’t want to ruin anything.”

“oh, lou, you couldn’t ruin this if you tried. relax, i’m here.” harry said as he started the engine and began to back out of the parking lot. “besides, i wouldn’t be able to stay mad at you, even if you gave me a reason to. not with your stupid little face.”

louis only smiled smugly at this, wanting with everything in him to believe the green-eyed boy’s words. wanting to trust. and in the moment, he felt that it really was okay. that he was okay.

so with everything, he kept holding on to this, afraid to lose any more than he had. after all, if he was going to suffer loss, he might as well enjoy it while he can. that’s what he told himself.


	7. this side of paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> life isn't a fairytale, so there is no such thing as a happy ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone is having a good day! there should be no tw this chapter x

when they arrived back at the younger boy’s apartment, louis felt himself relax a bit more, and he had noticed more things about the place than before. the first time he came, they were both hardly sober enough to think coherently, not to mention see the small details of the room in the dark. the second time, which was just earlier today, louis only waited at the door briefly before they departed. so he was here for what felt like the first time, despite the odd familiarity of it all.

like his car, harry’s apartment was also very _him._ candles and incense everywhere, a neat, albeit small kitchen, and everything being perfectly organized in the most disorganized way possible. a way that only harry could seamlessly find everything—yet not everything was practical. but that’s just who harry was. decorated, but impractical. one of the things that the smaller boy found so enamoring about him.

there was a wall of bookshelves with a large selection of novels, magazines, textbooks, comics, and academic journals that had caught louis’ eye.

“i didn’t know you read so much,” he said pointedly.

“you didn’t? i assumed you would have noticed from coming here the first time.”

“neither of us were particularly… present. or paying any sort of attention to our surroundings. so, no. i didn’t notice.”

“what, we were talking about the meaning of life but you weren’t even present in the moment, talking to me?” harry smirked, itching to tease the boy to get a cute reaction.

“first of all, curly mchazza pants,” louis emphasized, trying not to giggle, “we were not talking about the _meaning of life_. nothing so pretentious. you don’t even remember our conversation.” he pouted, feigning hurt.

“we spoke about writing and music and loneliness, thank you very much. basically life summed up, no?” harry retorted.

“okay, fine. you win, styles. but only because i’m choosing to be the bigger man and can accept that you’re still a stubborn kid,”

“you’re not the bigger _anything,_ ” harry laughed, carefully watching the ocean boy’s reaction. he’d begun to watch his tongue now, ever since the first day, when talking about size or food or anything. today’s mess had only reinforced that.

luckily, louis only laughed, turning his attention to the bookshelves. “man, styles. you really have quite the assortment, here,” he quipped, adding on quietly, “makes me jealous.”

before harry could really think about what he was saying, the words just fell out of his mouth. “you’re welcome here anytime, though. and you can borrow whatever you want. even keep your favorites.”

louis gave him an astonished look, causing his stomach and heart to flip inside of him. what if he was too hasty, or came off as too strong? but the ocean boy’s eyes ended up melting into a smile, crinkling up at the corners in that way harry loves. “thank you, love,” he said warmly. “i-“

as if some greater power were trying to sabotage their moment, harry’s phone had begun to ring obnoxiously. he cursed under his breath, taking it out of his pocket to see that it was niall. the lad was never really considerate, but harry knew there was not way for him to have known, and it was his own fault for not having his phone on silent anyway. reluctantly, he accepted the call.

“hello? i’m kind of in the middle of something,” he said, annoyed, to which louis snickered childishly at.

“oh, sorry! i didn’t know. i was just wondering if i could drop by tonight and pick up my bag i left at your place last week. but i mean, if you’ve got something going on, it can wait. it’s just, it’s got this textbook i need for econ, and i’ve got this paper due, and i don’t really kn-“

“i get it, niall.” harry sighed, exasperated, yet he expected nothing less of his best friend, whom he had known since secondary school. “you can come on down whenever. i’ll be home all day, anyway. i’ve got someone over, though.”

“oh yeah?” niall lilted, “someone cute? you interested in them? i’d like to meet them now. i’ll make a point of announcing my presence just to talk to this mysterious person you brought.”

“oh, shut up,” harry blushed. “it’s- it’s not like that. i don’t think. i mean, i don’t really know. but he’s cute. whatever. stop being an idiot. i’ll personally murder you in your sleep if you decide to do something stupid.”

“oh, it’s a _he,_ huh?” the irish boy prodded even further, before calming down. “don’t worry. i know, and i also just want to see if he’s good for you. protective friend stuff and everything.”

harry smiled, irritation flowing out of him from just those words. he and his friends cared for each other relentlessly, and he was grateful for having such people in his life. “i get it, niall. thanks, mate.”

“right, i’ll text you when i’m coming. see you in a bit!”

louis raised his eyebrows at harry as the latter set down his phone and sighed. “you good there, mate?” he said, bemusedly.

“yeah… niall’s just coming later to pick up some stuff he left. he was just being a proper dickhead about it.”

“no worries, should i get going, though, or…?”

“no!” harry accidentally exclaimed unconsciously, only then to recoil at the height of his voice. “no. it’ll be quick and, uh, he said he wants to meet you, anyway.”

“so i heard.” the ocean boy was still snickering at harry’s embarrassment, which harry secretly found to be the most endearing thing he’s ever seen, despite the world having seemed to go against him all day.

“whatever, i should be doing work, anyway. i’ve got a music theory test coming up.”

so the boys passed their afternoons as such, louis browsing through harry’s personal library and the taller boy grievously flipped through his textbook wishing he could be spending more time conversing directly with louis. though, this was comforting, in a sense, and much better than spending the afternoon studying alone in his apartment. it was something he decided he could get used to.

when harry decided that he’d done enough work for the day, having strummed through chords on his guitar (while louis pretended not to be interested but both boys knew that he was peering up from his book in wonder) as well as reviewed the conceptual stuff from the class, he set down his things and plopped himself comfortable next to louis on the old sofa.

“ _as i lay dying,_ huh?” he said gingerly. “that book fucked me up for a couple of nights, i couldn’t stop thinking about it. faulkner was truly a master of prose.”

“yeah. i read _absalom, absalom!_ and planned on reading more of his works. don’t tell me what happens in the end. but so far, i can really only understand darl. he seems like the only sane one out of them all.”

harry smirked, knowing full well what happens in the end. darl is the one that unhinges the most. “yeah, i guess so.” he continued when louis didn’t respond. “so, do you read a lot?”

“yeah. i enjoy reading, it’s really comforting and i love how language is used to make even the most mundane seem special. i am an english major, after all.”

harry enjoyed listening to louis talk about his interests, and somehow listening to his intricate thoughts manifest into something so much more palpable reminded him of the way that authors shaped their words with a magic touch. as if they were some stretchy substance, like taffy. sweet, thick, and constantly getting stuck between teeth. “so, what’s your favorite book?”

“i’m not sure, to be honest. though, the tempest holds a really special place in my heart. snobbish, i know. it’s shakespeare, after all. the ending is just so comforting, you know? compared to hamlet, anyway. it’s a story of communion in the end, despite all the fucked up things. even though things don’t work that way in reality. but that’s why we read, i guess. to escape.”

harry frowned at this. “you don’t think good things happen in real life?”

“no, that’s not what i meant.” louis paused, “they do. but it doesn’t ever stop there. we don’t know what happens _after_ the end of books, so when it’s a happily ever after, we accept that at face value. but the real world has no happily ever after. we all die, we all suffer, happiness ends. that’s just how it is.”

“things do get better, you know. even though you’re right that everything does come to an end, it’s still worth it, don’t you think?”

“i- i guess so.” louis looked up at harry softly, almost sadly, as if he didn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. it was then when harry decided he would prove to the boy that there _is_ such thing as a ‘happily ever after’. and that he wanted the ocean boy to be his endgame.


	8. when i saw you behind my eyelids, i knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rip these thoughts out of my head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning// eating disorder behavior! this chapter is incredibly triggering. it doesn't go into complete detail, but just err on the side of caution, please.
> 
> i understand if you don't feel ok reading, pm me and i will sum the chapter up for you. remember that you are not alone, and it gets better. i've been there. if you're looking to trigger yourself, i can't really stop you, but please consider turning around. take care of yourselves please! my dms are open. x

by the time niall had decided to swing by, harry and louis had already been chatting for a couple of hours; and harry was about ready to prepare dinner for them both, when he received a text from niall.

 **niall:** heyyy i’m like 5 mins from your place xx cya _(sent at 18:09)_

harry was in the kitchen, dressing the meat he had set out to defrost in the morning when the doorbell rang. louis was still sat on the couch reading, but now fidgety and clearly uncomfortable.

“lou? can you get that for me? my hands are still soaked with chicken juice. you’ll get to meet niall as well. but don't listen to him if he says anything stupid!” he added, laughing dryly.

“o-okay!” louis responded, standing up, this time careful to close his eyes and count to eight for good measure before allowing his body to carry his entire weight completely. just in case. the smell of chicken and pasta sauce had started wafting through the apartment and it made louis feel sick yet somehow ravenous to simply coexist with the scent. while he was reading, he could hardly concentrate, with the aroma coursing through the room and wrapping its unyielding fingers around his neck. so he was grateful to be able to air out the room, air out his head, air out his anxiety.

when he opened the door, a blond man with a stupid smile on his face stood before the ocean boy. louis could tell immediately that this guy, niall, as harry had called him, was the type of person to calm whoever came within a 30-meter radius of him. the type of person louis wished he were, really. the type of person louis knew he’d never be.

“oh,” niall said breathily, having ran up three flights of stairs, and louis noticed he had an irish accent. “you must be louis! the man, the myth, the legend!”

“hi…” louis had never been good with talking to new people. “harry’s in the kitchen right now, but uh, why don’t you come in?”

“harry’s in the kitchen, huh? looks like i’m in for a treat tonight! i don’t know if you’ve ever had harry’s cooking, but the lad could be the next gordan ramsey, i’m tellin’ ya!” he said heartily. louis, though accustomed to zayn’s comfortable silence and thoughtful conversations, needed this every once in a while. sure, he was never a frequent party-goer or one to bask in the center of attention, but rowdiness was one of his traits back in high school, before things got really hard.

“i heard that, niall!” a voice called from the kitchen as the oven dinged, signaling that the lasagna was finished. “i don’t remember inviting you over to have dinner with us.” harry was much more playful yet rough around his friends, which louis found to be especially charming.

“well, h! you never specified that it was a date, you told me nothing was going on so i figured it would be okay! besides,” niall teased, “you can’t just make whatever the hell you’re making smell so nice if you knew i was going to drop by, and _not_ expect me to want to stay for dinner.”

“i know, i know,” harry rolled his eyes, but with a grin plastered on his face, “how long do you think i’ve known you, ni? of course i expected you to squeeze your ass in here for some nice lasagna.”

“woo! i scored a big fish tonight!” the irish boy exclaimed. louis only watched the two banter from the sidelines for a couple of minutes, but he didn’t mind. not if it meant he got to watch harry laugh and act like an idiot.

“now set the table for me, we’re making louis wait. everyone’s starving. i’ll portion out your guys’ food.”

louis swallowed nervously with the mention of food, despite knowing that this was bound to happen at some point. he had originally planned to have made up an excuse to leave before dinnertime, but time just flew so fast whilst he was with harry, he lost himself. it’s something he hates about existing—how fleeting time is.

it’s always been a rule of his to never spend so much time with a single person in a day where’d he have to eat two meals with them. it was simply too risky. but here he was, breaking that rule. berating himself, he stuck his hands in his pockets to ball them up and dig his nails in his palms. the pain from the pressure was hot and piercing and grounded him. _it’s okay. just one more meal. don’t make a fool of yourself._

harry glances over at louis concernedly, knowing that there were thoughts racing through the ocean boy’s head uncontrollably. he wanted to rip those malicious thoughts out and hold the boy until things were okay again, but harry knew he couldn’t. not before he proved to the boy that he was safe to trust. that he would never hurt him.

the table was set, and the three of them were ready to dig into their meal. niall was excitedly shoveling food in his mouth, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. harry, who had been hungrier than he thought despite having eaten some ingredients secretly while preparing the food.

louis, however, was cutting the lasagna up into pieces and pushing it around on his plate carefully. he would bring forkfuls to his mouth, only to chime into the conversation and set it back down. there were times where louis would be oddly quiet—staring at his food both longingly yet disgustedly—and moments which he would be the center of the conversation, making stupid jokes and laughing his ass off.

but harry could tell it was all staged, a diversion to take others' attention off his eating. to harry, who had been observing him the entire time, could tell it was carefully rehearsed, as he would not let any lasagna actually enter his body. it was different from the salad from this afternoon, which he had allowed himself over three-fourths of. but with something as dense as lasagna, louis wouldn’t even consider putting any amount in his mouth.

it hurt harry to watch; the boy who deserved the world, the boy who was more beautiful than anything, the boy with a diamond heart and a diamond mind—wouldn’t allow himself something as simple as food, as sustenance. something that everything needed in order to survive: fuel.

he could tell louis felt harry’s gaze on him, as he occasionally glanced over and furrowed his eyebrows. harry tried to be discreet and look away, but the awkwardness was already there. niall just continued eating his food happily, without a care in the world, as louis wanted nothing more than to disappear.

harry was torn on whether he should say something or keep his mouth shut. he knew, in front of niall, it’d be the worst thing to do to someone. but watching the ocean boy treat himself as if he were nothing was simply so suffocating. harry saw it all. he saw his slight tremor, his hard swallows, the fake smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes. his eyes, the ones that harry loved so much looking so terribly lonely. he hated that. but for now, there was nothing he could do right now, at least. so when mealtime ended and he watched as louis feigned fullness, he had to blink back tears.

“man, i didn’t know you were such a chef, harry! the lasagna was delightful. perfect husband material, huh? can cook, can play guitar, can sing… what else would anyone look for?” louis exclaimed with that _fake_ happy voice of his, “i am so full from tonight, sorry i couldn’t finish.”

normally, the compliment would make harry flush red all the way up to his ears, but this time he simply couldn’t focus on that while he watched the skinny boy inexorably rake his entire plate of untouched food into the trash. he didn’t care about the food being wasted; that’s not what was important now. he just wanted to figure out _why_ louis was doing this to himself when he was so beautiful.

niall noticed the worry laced in harry’s features, and whisked the boy to the side. “oh, i just need to talk to haz for a second, louis, don’t mind us. it’s just about school stuff.” louis nodded and placed himself breezily on the couch, returning to the book. when niall made sure he and harry were out of earshot, he continued. “what’s wrong? you seem awfully stiff today, harold. is it just about louis, or is there something else going on? i’m here for you, liam and i both, you know.”

 _it_ was _about louis,_ harry thought, but not in the way niall imagined. and he wanted to spill out all of his concerns to the irish boy. knowing it was wrong though, as louis was only on the other side of the room, he bit his tongue and gave niall a tight-lipped smile. “oh, you worry too much. just nervous, with louis staying over, and i’m a bit worried about an exam coming up, is all. not a biggie.”

“okay, as long as you mean it,” niall sighed dejectedly. he wasn’t as dim as some would assume; he knew that there was something else going on. but harry seemed so firm about his answer that he decided he’d simply trust the curly-haired boy to come to himself and liam about it when he was ready.

they ended the conversation there, returning back to where louis was. harry began acting more cautious, not wanting to raise suspicion with niall, but to no avail. all three of them had sensed the swelling tightness in the air.

niall only excused himself from the place, hugging harry heartily as he went. “nice seeing you again today, hazza! and it was wonderful to finally meet you, louis. let’s all hang out sometime, the three of us with liam.”

“yeah, definitely!” harry was grateful for the blond boy’s energy, despite everything. “have a good night.”

the door closed, and again, it was only louis and harry remaining.


	9. i wanted to be your escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the stars can be so very empty and judgmental.

the two of them stood there for what felt like ages, avoiding eye contact at all costs. only the sound of the ever-running heater ran through the house. harry swore he could hear both his own as well as louis’ heartbeat. they were machines, like the heater running in the background, he thought, mechanical and unceasing. eventually, he was unable to settle with the silence as it sunk in, soaking both of them to the bone.

“so…” he attempted at stirring the stillness, “are you okay?”

“y-yeah, why wouldn’t i be?”

“you were really tense. i could tell, lou. i’m not blind. please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

louis burned red in shame and self-hatred for just a moment in time before he masked that chagrin with sizzling anger. “what do you know about me, harry? i don’t know why you’re still trying to treat me like a charity case after i’ve told you many times that it’s useless, but you’re taking it too far. quit trying to barge into my business when you clearly can’t handle me.”

“what? lou, what?” he had expected backlash from the smaller boy, but not in this form. “what are you talking about? i can’t ‘handle’ you?” harry raised his voice, hurt, and truthfully, irritated at louis’ stubbornness. “you’re accusing me of making assumptions, but you’ve done nothing to prove that i have no need to worry. you’re the one telling me i can’t handle you when you haven’t even given me a chance!” by this moment, harry was shaking—not out of anxiety, but out of pure frustration. his eyes were fervent with red heat, prickling with tears that felt like acid.

“why are you prying so much? i’m just trying to spare you the pain and effort! there’s nothing to find in me. you can’t fix me. there’s nothing to fix. i’m fine. what about that do you not understand?”

“you’re the one telling me what i can and can’t handle when you’ve not a clue. i care about you, louis. why can’t you understand that?”

“because you shouldn’t,” louis mumbled, almost inaudibly, throat closing and chest tightening. but he couldn’t afford to seem weak so he strained his voice painfully. harry could practically hear the battle going on in his head. “you can’t tell me you care about me when you don’t even know me.” he said as coldly and emotionlessly as possible.

“because you won’t let me in.”

“what’s the point?”

“so i can help you.”

“why do you want to?”

“like i said,” harry sighed, rubbing his temples, “i care about you.”

“why?”

“because you’re such a beautiful person and you’re worth caring about and i wouldn’t mind giving my all for.”

louis suddenly melted, tears he had been holding back the whole time coming out in fat drops down his cheeks. with just those words, the desire to give in to harry’s words, to believe them, colored him dark shades of blue and purple. “harry… please don’t say that without meaning it.”

at this point, harry’s tears had begun to slip past his eyelids as well. with each passing moment he spent with louis, it became more and more sickeningly clear how much the boy had truly detested himself. for what reason, harry didn’t know. because he was quite literally the most beautiful thing he had ever laid his eyes on. the soft curve of his lips and the mountains and valleys of his back he remembered tracing with his fingers just last week. from the very beginning, harry felt like he knew that this was _it_ for him. “i mean it, louis. you don’t believe me yet—and i get that—but please, just give me a chance.”

“what are you trying to say?”

“i’m saying, just let me in a little more.”

“what _are_ we, harry?”

“whatever you’re comfortable with. i’ll be patient if you need it.”

louis only closed his eyes and nodded. his soft trembles from before had evolved into more violent ones, and wracked his body with what made him seem possessed by some higher being. harry reached his hand out to touch him, but the ocean boy had only pulled away. harry felt a flash of hurt, but this was just step one to understanding the boy. _take nothing he does or says when he’s in this state personally._

_and don’t give up on him._

so he stepped closer, even as louis further caved in on himself, and wrapped his arms around the small boy until the shaking had stopped. they stood there for what could have been just seconds or minutes, but it also could have been hours or days; harry didn’t care. he wasn’t going to let go of louis, not now.

“thank you,” louis breathed. though it was only two simple words, the meaning had conveyed itself to harry. _for holding me. for fighting for me. for not just walking away when you realized how fucked up i was. for just_ being.

they retired to bed, harry not letting the blue-eyed boy with tears staining his cheeks to go home and spend his night alone tonight. he didn’t want to think about what would occur if louis let his thoughts attack him any more tonight. he didn’t want to think about what would have happened to the boy had he not noticed something was off in the first place.

they held each other, harry as the big spoon, clinging onto the smaller boy as if he would evaporate if he were to let go. so he didn’t.

“harry?” louis whispered, “are you awake?”

“yeah. what’s up, love?”

“i’m sorry.” louis’ voice broke. “i’m sorry.”

harry didn’t know what to say so he only pulled him closer and kissed him on the top of the head. time passed like this, and eventually the boy’s breathing slowed and harry could tell he had finally fallen asleep.

it felt wrong, but the younger boy unconsciously began exploring louis’ body through the tips of his fingers. the room was dark, so this was the next best thing that he had. he could feel the smooth, supple skin, the soft hair that never failed to smell of an indescribable scent that was so _louis._

he adored every inch of him, and as he found more, he only amazed him even further, the beauty of the boy. it amazed him, too, how louis couldn’t see himself like everyone else does.

harry could feel his ribs, every individual bone jutting out. he could count them if he tried. he could feel louis’ individual vertebrae, crawling up his back in sick, round pieces. it scared him, really. it had never struck him so hard _small_ the boy was.

moonlight leaked in from the open window; the curtains were still open. in contrast to the darkness of the room, the stars were almost blindingly bright. ironic, harry thought, that in this type of situation the stars would choose to show themselves, rather than the first night they had met.

even the stars, harry realized, could be so very hollow.

but they were comfortable, and the storm of the night had passed. louis was asleep in his arms as if their bodies were made to fit against each other, and while fear was bubbling in the curly-haired boy’s stomach, they were content. almost.


	10. the ribs aren't a cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry fears what he will find in the bathroom when the rest of the house is empty and cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// blood , implied/mentioned self-harm , vomit , eating disorder behavior , panic attacks
> 
> MASSIVE MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING. DO NOT READ IF YOU THINK IT MIGHT BE HARD FOR YOU. YOU ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN ANYTHING, NEVER QUESTION THAT FOR A SECOND. IF YOU'RE INTENTIONALLY TRIGGERING YOURSELF, TURN THE FUCK AROUND, YOU ARE WORTH SO MUCH MORE. 
> 
> on that note, take care of yourself. you deserve the world. i love you-- dm me anytime. follow me on twitter too! :)

after that incident, harry was happy to notice that louis had begun to open up a little bit more. the chest that had had tens and tens of locks before started seeming much more manageable. but the remainder, the ones that would refuse to budge no matter what the green-eyed boy tried, were the hardest to deal with. he’d approach each issue several times, and without fail, louis would run fast and far, leaving more distance than before between harry and his goal.

there were times harry’d considered giving up; everything was much too tiring and damn near impossible, a code that louis wrote for only the most skilled decipherers, and even then, louis would still be a total enigma to them.

the two boys made a habit of calling each other every night, texting throughout the day, and making plans on weekends. without fail, they’d become a crucial part of each other’s everyday lives. harry basked in this thought.

but he knew that it wasn’t so easy for louis; he wasn’t stupid. there were clearly some days that were more difficult than others, the days when he would call the ocean boy only to be left for the cold robotic drone of the automatic voicemail system or, even worse, louis’ voice, thick and breaking with tears.

there were times where it was painfully obvious that louis had spent god knows how long in his bed, in his bathroom, crying, before harry had called him, but it was an elephant they had always forced themselves to tiptoe around. at these times, louis was the most vulnerable, the most absolutely shattered, and harry didn’t want to make a wrong move and push the boy so far that their relationship would be irreparable. whatever their relationship was, anyway.

since that first night, they’d not done anything sexual, or even remotely romantic. harry would be lying if he said he didn’t crave it sometimes; seeing louis’ chest rise and fall in this sheets excited him at the worst of times, and he couldn’t help it. but remembering the utter terror painted on the ocean boy’s face that day made everything vanish into thin air. he’d just end up trying to swallow his fury, over the fact that someone had hurt the boy so much that he would hate himself to such an extent.

it was only three weeks since they had first met, a little under two weeks since the incident with niall, that they’d run into this issue again. but it was louis that had brought it up, with that sad, shaky voice of his that always broke harry’s heart.

“hazza?” the ocean boy whispered, voice coming through harry’s phone which he had held in a death grip against his ear, so as to not miss a single word, a single implication.

“yes, boo?”

“is… is it really alright for me to hope for something more… out of us?”

“what do you mean?” harry asked, despite knowing full well what the other boy meant.

“you know. i just don’t want to get disappointed again. i- i hate being like this with you, because we’d only met so recently… and you’re too nice to _not_ comfort me, anyway. like, i know you’re just going to tell me that you care and that i should trust you. you are everything i am not, harry. you don’t understand what i can get like. i can’t ask this of _anyone._ i can’t be this selfish. but part of me really, really, really wants to let you in. there’s a voice telling me that it’s okay. but it might be wrong, you know? and if i tell myself, all this time, that _this is_ _it_ , _he is the one, he’ll treat you right, you are allowed to open back him, you are allowed to think about yourself for once._ but if i allow myself something like that and it slips past my fingers anyway, i don’t think i’d ever recover. and it wouldn’t even be your fault—you are entitled to leave at any given moment, it’s not some disgusting cultist pact. i don’t want to pressure you into anything. but the end of this is inevitable, why allow it in the first place when i know from the start that it’s only going to destroy me? harry, i don’t even know why i’m here anymore.”

harry blinked, astounded at the amount that had just muddled out of louis’ mouth and through the speaker, astounded at the raw pain in louis’ voice. astounded that his boy has been feeling this way and he hadn’t done anything about it. astounded that someone so perfect could think so little of themselves. “lou, where are you right now?”

“a-at my apartment.” louis said carefully, wrinkling his forehead. “why? did you even listen to anything i just said?”

“everything. trust me. i’m on my way right now. same place you told me last week, right? shouldn’t be too far a drive, so i’ll be right there. stay put.”

“i, okay.” the ocean boy stated plainly, at a loss for words, before understanding the reality of the situation. he was in his bathroom, _crying_. he looked absolutely horrible. and now, harry is coming? how is he to fix his puffy red eyes and unsteady breathing in only fifteen minutes?

“i’ll talk to you in a little bit. so please just stay put, okay? i’ll be right there.”

it was a thursday night, and louis had called him again twenty minutes after they’d already said goodnight, like they always had. but when harry’s phone started vibrating again with louis’ number flashing urgently (as if his phone were trying to mock him), and he heard the unsteadiness in the boy’s voice, he didn’t even have to think before grabbing his keys and driving right to his ocean boy.

truthfully, when harry had reached louis’ apartment door, october gusts making everything even harder, even lonelier, he was scared of what he would find when he were to enter. a weak, crying, ocean boy with a look in his eyes that would follow harry to his dreams? an unconscious boy that had clearly been tearing himself apart with what god can only imagine? a lifeless boy, given up after everything, after all this time, a wilted, dried up flower telling harry that he’d been too late?

but he knew he had no time to waste, so he used the extra keys that louis had not-so-subtly left at harry’s place the week before, telling him without words that he was welcome anytime.

the house was eerily quiet, cold, no lights on, clothes and crumpled papers that had clearly been ripped from notebooks strewn everywhere. under a different situation, harry would have wanted to pick them all up and press them flat and read louis’ beautiful words (which louis would always claim were pretentious-sounding and overly edgy). it smelled of mold and rotting food, filling the entire area with this dampness that harry couldn’t quite place. it made him cough a little, burning his already asthmatic lungs with unfamiliarity.

but right now, he wasn’t thinking about that. he frantically walked around the apartment, searching for any sign of life. he found it in the form of a strip of light escaping the bottom of what he assumed to be the bathroom door.

testing the waters, harry shook the door handle a little bit, carefully and quietly, to find that it was unlocked. his heart was pounding in his ears, and now more than ever, he was terrified to see louis. or to better put it, he was terrified of seeing not-louis. a louis with empty eyes and an empty stomach, in contrast to the louis with the soft soul and soft smile he’d loved so much. but there wasn’t time to spare.

without even thinking about knocking, he slid the door open to reveal a blinding white light that made him squint, as he his eyes were already accustomed to the darkness of the rest of the apartment. the sour smell of vomit attacked his nostrils, even more severe than the odor that clung to the rest of the apartment. he recovered, staggering a little bit, but in front of him was the ocean boy, whom the sight of grounded harry instantly.

he was surprisingly much more calm that the younger boy had prepared himself for. sat staring at the full length mirror, completely naked wearing only layers of towels, eyes glued shut, not reacting to harry’s presence at all.

“lou? are you alright?

the ocean boy flinched at the sudden sound of harry's voice, shivers wracking him from head to toe once again. this made the curly-headed boy wince, wanting to be there to calm the boy down, not the opposite. it was obvious that he had been crying, and that tears were threatening to spill over again. louis said nothing, only continued his unsteady breathing, keeping his eyes shut.

harry noticed, that as a person breathes, their scapula extends backwards, as if preparing for flight. on louis, he’d imagine full-length wings like that of an angel, fitting of someone as bright as him. people say the scapula is where our wings used to be before they were mercilessly ripped off of us, feather by feather.

he bent down, carefully, reaching a hand out to touch louis, when the boy’s breathing sped up, an ugly reminder of what this situation really meant. it was a repeat of what happened when they had first properly met, except louis was much more vulnerable this time over.

“baby, you have to breathe. in and out with me,” harry whispered, trying to remain calm, but how could he, when the ocean boy seemed like he was ready to break at any moment?

he knew how badly it could turn out, but harry took the risk and wrapped his arms tightly around the small boy, breathing emphatically in hopes that the rhythm would somehow reach louis, and the storm would be over once again.

another reminder of how _small_ the ocean boy was.

and he truly was an ocean boy, harry came to see—calm, still, and serene at times, but also tumultuous and wholly unrestrainable.

“i’m here, love. i’m here. i’m here.”

he wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, but eventually, louis opened his eyes again, looking up at the younger boy from his arms. “h-harry?” he whispered hoarsely, “why are you here?”

“you seemed really upset earlier, on the phone. so i allowed myself in and found you here. lou, what’s wrong?”

as if the circumstances had sunk in finally, louis jumped in fear and pried himself out of harry’s arms. gripping onto the towel to hide his body, “i, i’m fine. please, please just leave. i love you, but please, never do this again. i’ll be fine, okay?”

“ _what?_ _you want me to leave, and leave you here like this?_ ”

“is that not what i said, harry?” louis breathed in, trying to calm himself down. “i’m sorry you had to catch me like that again. just forget it all, okay? i’m fine.”

“ _stop_ fucking saying that if you know what’s good for you, louis william tomlinson. i’m not fucking leaving, not now.”

“please,” the ocean boy pleaded, voice breaking, and harry’s heart broke right along with it. “just let me alone. i’ll be fine on my own, love. believe me.” he let out a weak smile, not quite reaching his eyes.

red trickled down louis’ bare leg, and he was quick to swipe it up with the end of his towel, but the damage had already been done. harry saw.

this is when he could no longer hide the primitiveness of his worry anymore, and felt the white-hot tears he’d tried so hard to hide trickle out of the corners of his eyes.

_“oh, lou…”_


	11. the dangers of tolerance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> voltaire once said...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// implied self-harm , mentions of vomit , disordered behavior
> 
> stay safe! x

it didn’t exactly turn out like harry imagined for it to.

he thought that he’d be coming over to check on his boy, and whatever state that he’d find him in, he’d hold him for as long as he was allowed. then, they’d talk about their feelings, maybe even establish what exactly their relationship was, cuddle and kiss a bit, and happily ever after.

but it wasn’t so perfect, and it would never be, really.

harry looked back up at louis as they were both standing in the bathroom, suddenly becoming aware of the bloodied tissues in the trash bin and of louis, who was stood distraught right in front of him. “lou… lou, listen to me-“

“stop. please, just get out for a second. i’m not asking you to leave. go sit and watch tv or something. i’ll be right out,” louis pleaded, “i’ll be fine. please, just do this one thing for me, and i won’t ask any more of you. ever.”

there was no way harry could fight back. and even if he had, louis would just look at him with those huge puppy-dog eyes of his, and harry would break even more. “o-okay. but be safe okay? i’ll come check on you if you aren’t out in a half hour.”

louis laughed dryly, to which harry let out a sigh of relief at, because things must be looking up if the boy had the energy to be sarcastic. “i’m not going to kill myself while you’re here if that’s what you’re worried about.”

so all harry could do was turn around and give louis some time. however many minutes passed felt like an eternity. but he just had to pace around the living room, which could hardly be called that because it certainly didn’t feel like anything or anyone was _living_ in it. the pacing only gave him closure for a short period, so he began to clean the place up. at least it would be a somewhat productive use of his time.

there were half-eaten sandwiches on the ground which louis had clearly tried to eat but couldn’t bring himself to, molding fruits, empty wrappers, napkins full of food that’s been chewed and spat. it made harry queasy to look at and think about, but he stomached it and got the place to a state that was somewhat presentable. what the smell was from, he still couldn’t but his finger on.

the door of the bathroom cracked open, causing light to spill through to the rest of the apartment. ironic, but louis looked truly looked otherworldly in the light, as if he himself were the source of it. and he very well could be. it’d be more fitting than the cold, sterile-looking white bulbs that still taunted harry about what he saw not even an hour before.

“you could have turned on a lamp, you know,” louis said lightly, much more stable than before. “sorry for the mess though. i promise it’s not usually like this.”

harry was speechless for a second, unable to form words at the sight of the ocean boy, still holding all this trash in his hands as louis turned on a light. “oh, i didn’t mind the dark. and it’s alright, i already knew you were a mess with how you leave so many socks at my place,” harry chuckled, before entering a more serious tone. “so… are we going to talk about it?”

“no,” louis replied quickly, not even giving it so much as a second thought. “we won’t. there’s nothing to talk about, really. again, i’m sorry you had to walk in on me like that. but i can handle myself fine.” his blue eyes were ice cold, his face stony. harry suddenly felt small—the locks he’d worked so hard to undo before had slipped right back on, this time with keys much harder to obtain. he cursed himself under his breath.

“i understand. i’ll leave it for now, but just know that i care. and i’m here when you’re ready. it might not be now, but someday, okay? i’m not going anywhere.”

harry could tell that louis wanted to fight back, but decided against it, seeing the taller boy’s resolve and knowing that it would be futile. “well, whatever then. i’ll grab a garbage bag from the cupboard for the rubbish in your hands. you look lost, harold. you didn’t have to hold onto it the entire time.”

the ocean boy hobbled over to the kitchen, walking stiffly, which stung harry’s chest now that he knew exactly why his gait was so odd. but all he could do at the moment was muffle these feelings again. it seemed like muffling things was all he did, nowadays, ever since he met louis. it hurt.

they spent the next fifteen minutes shuffling around, getting the place in order. the thing that was responsible for the odor, harry realized, a carton of spoiled milk he’d found sitting in the corner of the room. when he disposed of it, while the smell had improved, he still wished he had a can of air freshener on hand. a note for next time, he figured.

eventually, louis was the one that broke the silence after they’d picked everything up off the ground. “are you staying the night?”

“i didn’t really bring clothes to change into, and i left my wallet at home, so i’m not sure…” harry trailed on, debating in his head. “if you want me to stay, i will, though.”

“it’s- it’s okay.” louis said, biting his lip. “you definitely should head home. got an early class tomorrow, no? i’m sorry for having kept you up this late in the first place.”

“not your fault, loubear. i chose to come over to check on you, and you’re important. fuck class. i’ve been doing all my assignments and not missed a single thing from that professor, anyway.”

“still, i feel bad. besides, i would have been fine without you. i’m used to it, after all.” the last part was nearly inaudible, but harry had grown to become good at picking up on even the smallest of implications—a skill he had to polish after having met the ocean boy.

“you know you don’t have to do everything alone, right? because you’re not. you have your friends, you have… me.”

“it’s easier for everyone if i just deal with it.”

“but not for you.”

“it’s easier for me if i don’t have to feel bad about bothering others.”

“you wouldn’t be, though. you’re not a bother, lou.”

louis gave harry a tired sigh. “you don’t even know me yet. you don’t know the worst of it all, and i don’t want you to. i don’t plan on letting anyone see it.”

“does your family know about this?”

“how many times do i have to repeat myself, harry?” louis growled, suddenly being overcame by a headache, trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible. “i’m not opening for anyone. i don’t plan to, ever. i’m perfectly fine.”

“lou-“

“i’m done talking about this. if you’re going to stay, we might as well watch a movie or something. but we’re not talking about this anymore tonight.”

harry blinked, not knowing what to say. he saw the anxiety bubbling behind the boy’s blue eyes, though, and could do nothing but drop it. “okay, if that makes you feel better.”

louis gave him a tight-lipped smile. “we’re doing grease tonight, i don’t care what you have to say. if you have a problem with my movie choice, styles, you can get right out; the exit is that way.”

harry laughed, a bit relieved to see the glimpses of the regular, sassy lad he was used to. “wasn’t planning on objecting.”

the two of them cuddled up against each other in a way that harry could see bandages under the ocean boy’s shorts, but he didn’t mention it. he didn’t mention how it made his throat tighten or how it made him want to scream in pain. he didn’t mention how much he wanted to feel that pain, just once, to experience what louis felt what must’ve been a nearly-nightly basis. he just held the boy much tighter, as if this moment were going to slip away from him.

“lou?” harry whispered a few minutes into the movie.

“what’s up, curly?”

“do you want… to be… something more?”

“what do you mean?” moonlight was dancing in and filling the room as it grew darker and deeper into the night. god, harry hated how night makes him so sentimental.

“you know. like. it’d just make me feel better if we had something tangible, you know?”

“is what we have not tangible?” louis asked, a bit of hurt escaping his voice, which made harry suck in a breath.

“no… it is, it is, but… oh, lou, don’t make me say it.”

the ocean boy smiled after realizing what harry really meant. “you’ve got to though, sad one. or i won’t understand.” he’d always had a knack for teasing the big, clumsy lad with the long lanky limbs. he was just too endearing to give peace to, louis thought.

“do you… want to, you know, be… exclusive?”

“stop with those big words, harold. i don’t know what they mean.”

“you’re an english major, for fuck’s sake! you threw the word ‘sanctimonious’ at me on the day we first met, so don’t try to tell me you don’t know what ‘exclusive’ means, you dirty liar!”

“oh, did i?” louis chuckled, remembering that moment fondly. it was quite funny now that some time had passed, a night that’ll always be close to him. “i must’ve been fuming, then. you and your cute-lookin’ ass was too much for me.”

“louuuuuuuu!” harry whined, “just give me an answer.”

louis’ face fell at this, realizing that harry was being serious, which made both boys tense up. “i… i don’t know, haz. i was okay with a one-night stand. and i know what i said when i left that day, and i know that we’re too close for that to have _just_ been a one-night stand. my clothes didn’t even come off. and i care about you too much right now to just _stop._ but. but i can’t just suddenly…” louis trailed off, looking so lost. “i can’t just suddenly jump into that. it’s not fair for you. not to mention… i still can’t believe someone like you would even give a second thought about someone like me.”

“so, is that a no?”

“you don’t understand, harry, you don’t understand how much i want to say yes, how much of a dream that would be. but-“

“there is no but, then. we know what we both want. i want you, and you want me. what more is there to have to think about?”

“it’s not that simple for everyone,” louis snapped, then softened after he realized he’d startled harry. “i just, i don’t really trust myself enough right now to not fuck everything up with you.”

“no, lou. you don’t trust me enough to believe that i wouldn’t leave you over anything.”

“stop putting words in my mouth, styles. but i guess you’re right,” he sighed, defeated. those ocean eyes harry had loved so much were at a high tide at this moment, deep and dark and unrelenting. at first glance, they seemed dangerous, but they were really just afraid.

“alright. i’ll give you some time.” harry swallowed, disappointed.

“you don’t have to wait for me. i know it gets tiring and you’ll start questioning whether it is really worth it or not. and i don’t want you to come to hate me over this.”

“never.” harry cut in, “never. i will _never_ hate you. no matter what happens. no matter what i say, or what you say. even if we get in a fight and it feels like we’ve lost everything, and we’re both sobbing like we’re dying, i could never hate you, louis. on my grave.”

the older boy smiled, almost believing it. “thanks.”

the discussion ended there, as harry had no more to add. so the two boys just continued watching the movie, holding each other much tighter than before; not in a way like they were afraid to lose each other, but in a way that allowed for them to feel the other the most honestly and nakedly.


	12. if you're not the one for me, who is?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on a lazy morning, they try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// eating disorder thoughts , mentions of calories
> 
> stay safe!

the next morning was a wake-up call back to reality. both the boys’ eyes were red and puffy from the incessant crying of the night before, and harry felt like the pressure from his sinuses were truly going to crush his skull. not to mention, he realized that he’d missed his first morning class.

the younger boy woke up to empty arms and empty sheets. after finishing their movie at around midnight, they decided to squeeze into louis’ bed and sleep; it was too late and harry’s eyelids were too heavy for him to even consider trying to drive home. they had to squeeze close though, as louis’ bed was quite small, though harry didn’t mind. quite the opposite, really.

harry stumbled off of the bed (realizing he smelled like louis, and thought about never showering again), not used to how tall it was. funny, because louis was such a small boy in stature. he was still unfamiliar with the mapping of the apartment, but he managed to find light coming from the bathroom—an ugly reminder of just twelve hours before.

luckily, he found louis brushing his teeth calmly, bed hair sticking up wildly, in a way such that harry didn’t even know hair could go. he thought it was beautiful. he stood there for a while, only watching the ocean boy, unaware that he’d been noticed already.

“are you just going to stand there, or are you going to say something?” louis said, after gurgling and rinsing.

this took harry out of his stupor, feeling stupid. “i… i was just thinking about how pretty you are.”

the words hung tranquilly in the air for a few seconds as louis could only gaze back fondly. he, too, didn’t take for granted harry’s natural beauty. how a man with everything anyone could want fell in love with him, he didn’t know. it was the biggest mystery of a lifetime. “don’t flatter me, love. you don’t know beauty until you see yourself.”

“cheesy, tomlinson.”

“you started it.”

harry didn’t even care that as minutes ticked by, he was missing more and more of his classes. he cursed himself from a year ago on a daily basis for choosing morning classes, anyway. he thought it’d be a good way to maintain a healthy schedule, but didn’t factor in the addition of an irresistible blue-eyed boy in his life.

“do you have anything for breakfast?” harry asked casually, before he remembered who it was that he was talking to.

louis scratched the back of his neck, as if unsure of whether he had _food_ in his house. things that were edible and not regurgitated and rotting on the floor, anyway. “erm, i’m not really sure. i mean, you can check? but it’ll be pretty shit probably, anyway. you should still eat though, could probably grab something on your way to class.”

harry snorted. “fuck class. there’s no way i’m going today, and even if i wanted to, there’s no way i’d make it,” he gestured at the clock hanging in the hallway, “it’s eleven thirty already. if i were to get ready now and drive there, i’d get there at twelve, and that’s the point of staying for an hour more of classes?”

“what happened to being responsible?” louis chuckled, “you could be missing a lot of material in that hour.”

“it’s music history. i can get all the information from a textbook. or even the internet. besides, how many music history classes do you think i’ve taken in my lifetime?”

“whatever. do as you please, but like i said, i might not have much in regards of food laying around.”

“i’ll go grocery shopping for you. i’ll even come back and make you lunch.”

louis flinched, trying of something to say that would be fitting but also get him out of this situation. although difficulties with food couldn’t really be called a secret anymore, he didn’t want to be so blunt about it and get another lecture from the curly-headed boy. “no need… i can’t cook, anyway. so it’d all go bad, you know?”

“then i’ll come over and cook for you as much as i can.”

“harry…”

“i’m serious, louis. whatever it takes.”

louis only heaved a sigh and returned to his morning routine, turning on the faucet to wash his face. “you’re a college student, haz. can’t be wasting money like that. just spend it on yourself, okay?”

“spending it on you isn’t a waste.”

“okay, but there are other things. and i have my own money.”

“then let’s go to the store together and we can grab you groceries and you can pay.”

it was far too early for this conversation. louis’ eyes still stung and his throat was still raw from the night before. even when he was brushing his teeth, he could practically feel his enamel burning off from the toothbrush rubbing against the teeth, which were already weakened by frequent contact with stomach acid. “i rather spend my money on other things,” he said weakly, knowing harry was only going to go on and on about health.

surprisingly though, he didn’t. “well i’m hungry. so i’m going going to go out and get a coffee and a muffin or something. i’ll bring you some stuff too, and maybe a few things to last you for a couple of days. it won’t be much, don’t worry.”

“okay,” louis conceded, knowing anything he’d try to argue would be fruitless. in these situations, he might as well be talking back to a brick wall. “just don’t get me too much. and i’ll pay you back after, as well.”

“deal.” harry said, and went his way, throwing on a hoodie he’s been holding, otherwise staying in the joggers he wore to bed last night.

“be safe, love you.” louis said, without thinking, to which harry turned around and smiled this wide smile that made the ocean boy’s cheeks burn.

“love you, too.”

louis finished his morning routine; having brushed his teeth, washed his face, and done hair, so sat at his desk to do some work to kill time while harry was gone. he had a lecture at three in the afternoon today, so he couldn’t exactly spend the day relaxing, but it was close to it. he considered getting a job, as the place he worked at shut down a couple of months ago and he hadn’t gotten around to finding a new one. it was an old store that sold used books, owned by an old man whose wife had recently passed. he enjoyed working there, as it fed his love for literature and was just overall a very relaxing environment.

in class, they were analyzing writers’ sentence structure in essays and how they work to convey meaning. louis found it interesting, how small manipulations of words can paint something so large in the grand scheme of things. how even the switching of two sounds can change the tone of the entire sentence. writing, he’d read in an essay for class, is very much like enchanting. it’s enchanting your reader and making them fall in love with you, almost. even if the point of the piece is ugly and exposes the very worst parts of humanity, the ultimate goal is to captivate readers. louis thought that nabakov couldn’t be more correct in this statement.

he’d gotten through a few pieces, writing outlines of what they did rhetorically, when harry returned home. it startled him, as he briefly forgot that he’d given harry a key. but after the initial jump, it was relaxing, in a way. sort of domestic—something that would happen if they were married and living together. he disposed of that thought as soon as it entered his mind, though. he didn’t want to get his own hopes up when he rejected the very notion of becoming something more to the boy just the night before.

“louuu, i’m home!” harry called from across the room, “i brought the goods!” he was holding five bags full of groceries, and a brown bag from starbucks in his mouth.

“christ, harry. i told you not to overdo it, what am i going to do with all of this? it’s just a waste of money.”

“no, because i’ll be staying here and making food both of us, myself included, whether you eat it or not.”

“who said you could stay here?”

“as if you have the heart to kick me out.”

“touche, styles.”

the two of them only looked at each other intensely, until harry couldn’t help but look away, feeling defenseless under the gape of the ocean boy. as if with just a look, he could uncover every single thought running through the younger boy’s head.

“i- i…” harry paused, “i’m going to go make something. i got you a pastry, though.” he threw the bag at louis, which was caught by unsteady hands.

“harry, this-“

“just take it. i already had a muffin earlier.”

louis could only stand there dumbfounded, not knowing what to do with the pastry in his hands, which he could smell the sticky, sweet frosting even without opening the back. it made him feel sick. harry had left, though, now in the kitchen putting things away.

louis just set the pastry down on the coffee table, not able to bear holding it anymore. it made the hunger even more apparent within him, stomach gnawing at him for any source of sustenance. he swore that people could absorb calories through scent or through touch sometimes, with the reaction that he’d get just by being _around_ food. the very thought scared him, and made him want to go back to the bathroom and weigh himself again.

harry returned shortly, seeing the untouched pastry, wordlessly held the smaller boy. louis’ head fit right in the nook his neck, and he felt like a home to the other boy’s body. more so than this apartment did, really.

they released from the embrace, saying nothing, allowing the silence absorb them. harry suddenly felt this sense of hopelessness from not being able to help the ocean boy, and haunted by the memories of the night before. it felt like something was piercing his chest, telling him that something had to be done, and soon, or he’d regret it.

he only pushed this feelings away, though. because what was there to be done? what was there, when all louis would do is force a smile and push him away? but uncertainty and fear still rippled inside him. all this was just so _overwhelming._

“loubear, promise me something, okay?”

“hm?” the blue-eyed boy grunted, still in harry’s arms.

“never, never leave.”

louis stayed quiet, only squeezing harry tighter.


	13. wherever it is we're supposed to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drag those words across your chest until you feel like nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of self-harm , binging/purging , restricting , ed behavior. stay safe xx
> 
> follow me on twitter!  
> twitter.com/louflymehome

louis had harry leave shortly before he was to get ready for class, despite harry’s protests of wanting to drive him to campus. but eventually, he conceded and went his own way, much to his dismay.

he’d hoped that louis would eat something, _anything_ , before having to walk to the nearby stop to catch the 2:40 bus. sometimes, he’d dream that he’d get a call from the hospital telling him that louis had passed out along the sidewalk, and was in critical condition. if the current situation pressed on, he realized, that dream would not be a stretch from reality at all.

he hadn’t had the time to process what he saw the night before until now, being so focused on the tasks in front of him—comforting louis, getting food he thought louis would like, watching to make sure louis didn’t do anything dangerous—that he hardly had time to really _think_ at all. when he went to the grocery store earlier, the only thing that concerned him was choosing whatever things seemed even remotely appropriate for louis, and rushing back home. he didn’t want to leave the ocean boy alone for too long, not after what had happened.

now, thinking back, it would be quite irrational to not trust louis to fend for himself while he went about the things he needed to do; as louis had survived on his own for _this_ long, astoundingly. he had a childhood friend, but from what he’d heard, the friend had their own things to worry about, which he couldn’t blame them for, but was it really that much of a stretch to at least check on your best friend to make sure he wasn't ruining himself? and he was, with absolutely nothing done about it.

harry imagined nights like the last, where louis suffered, probably emptying out the contents of his stomach while crying and choking and hurting himself. but there would be no harry to call, and he’d be alone. maybe he’d pass out on the bathroom floor, only to wake up sticky with blood and vomit the next morning, being ripped back to reality by the harsh sunlight. the very thought made harry want to be sick, himself.

he decided to go to the library, where he’d spend his days studying the more conceptual parts of music, or look for new novels to bury himself in. like louis, harry had always loved books, as he’d read everything in his personal library at least twice. but he, on no level, could analyze writing like louis could, nor could he write such intricately strung sentences. he could write lyrics, he could write music. but he could never really articulate his thoughts properly, so they’d all remain jumbled in his head as he’d try to explain why exactly he functions as he does.

the green-eyed boy found himself missing louis already, and in his mind he already thought of louis and him as more than friends, despite getting rejected the night before. it didn’t really make sense to him- if louis wanted him, and he wanted louis, then things were perfect, right? this would be their happily ever after?

but the cold, bitter actuality of things was that it would never be so simple. for harry, it was always a straight line. he’d meet someone, they’d get to know each other, become close friends, then eventually date and break up. but he knew he was fortunate in that regard, that he lived a good childhood with a mother that brought him up well.

that isn’t to say that louis’ mother didn’t. from the way louis spoke of her, he loved her very much, just as she did he. but she was always such a busy person, even before he fell ill, one with seven children to take care of, louis never wanted to make things harder for her by burdening her with his feelings.

harry understood, in a sense. the desire to be strong for the sake of others, to seem reliable no matter what. he, himself had definitely had experience with that in his life. when his father left, he was the only man left in his family, and despite being the youngest, he wanted to be the one to protect his sister and his mother.

but even he understood when he was overexerting himself, and it was time to ask for help. he knew that gemma or anne would be quick to show up at his side, comforting him whenever things got too much and it became difficult to breathe. after all, living with both asthma and anxiety was a difficult thing.

though he already had a vague idea, it’d hit him harder now more than ever before how little louis cared about himself. or, if one were to put it in a much nicer way, how much he cared about others. it was beautiful in its own fucked up sense.

harry was pulled back to reality after a book caught his eye. _a pale view of hills,_ by kazuo ishiguro. he’d a little bit of ishiguro’s work; the man was a contemporary novelist whose writing reflected his ornate ideas. something louis would enjoy. so he grabbed the book awkwardly, having to bend down, as it was on the bottom shelf, and shuffled to check it out.

a lot of his life, harry found, had begun to revolve completely around the blue-eyed boy. eating a meal. is louis eating? reading. would louis like this book? doing schoolwork. what’s louis learning about at the moment? working. what if louis were to show up through the doors of this sandwich shop, right at this moment?

he got to the counter to check out the book, only to be met by a young man who couldn’t have been older than louis _(fuck, thinking of him again)_ with hazel eyes and long eyelashes. even longer than the ocean boy’s.

“just this for you today?” he asked, and harry was, again, speechless. of course, he was in love with louis and his brain only had space for louis, but he appreciated a pretty person when he saw one. that’s just how it works.

“yeah,” he smiled, marveling at the stranger’s beauty. he was beautiful in a way that was different from louis, all dark and bold, yet warm.

“i need your library card, please.”

harry dug around in his wallet. normally, he’d bring his card with him when he went to the library, but this trip wasn’t exactly planned. “sorry, i don’t have it today. is there another way i can-“

“i can search by phone number?”

the curly-headed boy huffed a sigh of relief, glad that he would still be able to show this book to louis.

“is that your cell phone number?”

“y-yeah. i did give you the right one, right? the one connected to my card?”

“oh, yeah, yeah. no worries. i just wanted to know for myself. lucky i got to get your number without having to be too forward. perfect situation. i’m zayn, by the way,” the man smirked coyly.

“oh, you could have just asked outright, really. but i’m harry,” he laughed, slightly surprised that the guy he’d thought was cute would hit on him first. it wasn’t something that hadn’t happened before, though. naturally, with his good lucks paired with a clumsy aura, people found it easy to approach him.

“probably would’ve, if you’d have brought your card.” zayn replied, “but yeah. you’re all set. have a good one! i’ll probably text you at some point.”

“no problem,” harry said coolly, strolling away with the book in hand. he made a mental note to let zayn know later if he got a text, that he was already completely whipped for a certain ocean boy and that he wasn’t really looking for anything else. he’d love to be friends, though.

harry went back to his own place, grabbing some clothes and a bag full of his schoolwork and the rest of what was deemed necessary to get from place to place. right after, though, he made a beeline straight back to louis’ place with the book he got today and his spare keys.

he’d decided that as much as possible, he’d make it a point to go to the older boy’s apartment. until they both needed space and he got kicked out, of course. but for now, it was killing two birds with one stone—easing harry’s worries and selfish desires, as well as making sure that the boy was safe.

by the time he got there, louis hadn’t returned from campus yet, as he liked to go on long walks (which made harry fear for him even more; chilly weather and low body temperature considered). so in the meantime, he’d decided that he would prepare another meal. it would be much easier, considering the new ingredients that harry chose with the ocean boy’s preferences in mind.

or rather, what he thought to be his preferences. because in reality, he had no clue. harry realized, aside from louis’ taste in literature, they knew virtually nothing about each other. not favorite colors or memories or foods. though, would a boy who refused to eat have a favorite food, anyway?

he opted for an autumn-themed soup with noodles, fitting for the occasion as well as the biting weather outside, hoping that louis would at least try some.

harry wasn’t completely ignorant when it came to things like eating disorders and depression; he’d taken psychology classes in high school where they went over such illnesses briefly, and it was not uncommon to talk about on social media, either. but he’d never actually spoke with anyone who had to struggle so much with these things. it was hard, that much was clear. but aside from that, it was really hard for harry to fathom.

which was good, he figured, as he knew that ruining himself while trying to fix another was _not_ the play.

louis came home at around 5:30, surprised to see that the lights were on, and that once again, the place smelled of food. although he wasn’t pleased that harry had helped himself to the kitchen and started cooking for what must have been that two of them, as the pot on the stove was far too large for a single serving, he found it wholly beseeching. as if the domesticity of this morning hadn’t been enough, he now had someone to come home to, making him something nice and warm after a tiring lecture.

of course, the joy was short-lived as the good feelings dissipated, replaced by ones that were much more primal, much more innate, as his brain had wired itself to respond to food like it were poison.

“harry, why are you cooking again? and you do realize this is my place, right? not yours?”

“of course, i’m not completely senile yet, despite being the ripe age of nineteen.” he said sarcastically, “besides, i missed you, and i like it here. i just thought i’d make us something for tonight. because i bet you haven’t eaten.”

louis rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation when in reality there were tears prickling at his eyes once again. he hated how much he’s been crying lately, ever since a certain boy with bouncy curls appeared in his life. “i ate on campus. i’m full, so just make enough for yourself. if i get hungry, i’ll just fix myself something later.”

“you’re lying, lou,” harry pushed gently, not quite angry, but stern. “i can tell with these things. did you eat before class, though?”

“i… i did,” the smaller boy said, embarrassedly. of what, harry didn’t know. it’s normal for people to eat. but louis spoke of it as if he were admitting to murdering someone.

“really?”

“yeah. promise.” and he had. he went to pick up a coffee—black with no cream or sugar—and got a cup of fruit to snack on to avoid passing out. fruit always made him feel heavy, its sweetness paired with high water content, it tricks the body into thinking it’s given much more than it really is.

“good,” harry gave the ocean boy a concerned look. “just be honest with me from now on, lou. i won’t get mad or anything, i just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“but i am,” louis replied plainly, “i’m perfectly fine.”

those words always made harry irrationally emotional. he had a suspicion that they did last night, but hearing those words again only confirmed it. “then why do you starve yourself like you do? why did i catch you with blood running down your leg as you were crying?” he snapped back, with much more severity than he had intended. “how would you feel if i was doing that to myself?”

“i would hate that,” louis answered quickly, but regretted it instantly. he knew what point harry was trying to make; he’d heard it too many times before.

“if not me, then why yourself?”

“because it’s _you,_ hazza! you’re all fresh air and vanilla and honeysuckle. living proof that there is still good in this world. you don’t deserve it.”

_“but you do?”_

a deafening pause.

when louis couldn’t answer, the green-eyed boy felt his heart splinter once more, and stormed right from the kitchen out of the apartment, not even bothering to turn off the stove.

and the ocean boy was alone again.


	14. jane, be still; don't struggle so like a wild, frantic bird, that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> charlotte brontë, jane eyre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// self harm , ed thoughts , self hatred.
> 
> it's not very graphic but i dug more deeply into louis' character. i'd avoided it before due to how triggering it was and how vulnerable i myself would have to be for this. this chapter was really difficult for me to write.
> 
> stay safe!

harry couldn’t stand being in the same room as the boy after what he’d heard. it was selfish, he knew, but the anger (he couldn’t find a better word to place these emotions that were boiling over) had just overcome him and all he knew was that he had to get out. leaving louis alone was an awful idea, but harry was more afraid of what he’d say if he didn't at least take time to think and breathe.

it wasn’t the fact that louis was being all cagey again that had set him off. rather, it was the mere image that he had truly _believed_ that he deserved all that pain. he knew that the boy didn’t care about himself; or at least he thought he knew. hearing it in person was a whole different story, though.

louis didn’t have to say anything for the implications to hang brightly in the air.

_“and you do?”_

harry could practically hear louis’ thoughts. the ocean boy didn’t have to give an answer for them both to connect the dots. even so, he still awaited a “no.” or at least an uncomfortable laugh. or an unnatural change of subject.

ergo, when it didn’t come, all harry could do was run.

he’d been running all his life, anyway. what was the harm in giving himself some time now? he ran from consequences, from bullies, from emotions, from anxiousness, from his asthma. of course, until he couldn’t. and when he couldn’t, his body would force him to keel over and convulse for air. it was as if he were being punished for being such a coward by receiving a taste of his own medicine. oxygen would be the one to run from him, instead, and it was much faster than he could ever hope to be.

it came to harry’s attention after close to a half hour of sprinting away from louis’ apartment complex that he had nowhere to go. he didn’t bring his wallet, his keys, his phone, or anything. he made sure to prepare so meticulously to stay the night at louis’ so that the older didn’t have any loopholes to find an excuse for him to leave. his plan was so flawless that even he, himself, could not get around it-- just as the man he was from a few hours ago had wanted it.

the world was spinning too quickly. harry thought that he could feel each and every revolution of the earth, making him too dizzy to be able to comprehend anything, so all he could really do was turn around and head back. back to louis. it was steadily getting darker and darker, anyway. another sobering reality of late-autumn, what many called “depression season”; the sky was always pregnant with this gray heaviness. harry hated it.

back at home, however, louis hadn’t moved from the spot he was left since harry had departed thirty minutes ago. but this time, it wasn’t fear that consumed him. it was hope.

in a fucked up way, the ocean boy had hoped that harry would never come back. he knew that if he truly cared about him, if he really wanted nothing more than the boy’s happiness, then he would cut himself off from the curly-headed one straight away. without a doubt, it would hurt him for a while, but harry could get anyone he wanted. surely, he would be able to find someone good enough for him.

of course, it pained him so much it was almost insufferable to the point of taking it all back and begging for forgiveness again. but he’d already resolved himself to go for what would be the best in the long run for harry. not for himself, certainly, because what did _he_ matter?

for harry. if being with louis meant harry’s potential would be wasted, it would be terribly selfish of him to cling on for any longer. and the longer he would cling the more difficult it would be to let go. so right now was the time.

being released was beautiful—so much more so than louis thought. this was a decision he’d been thinking about making since the very beginning. because he knew it would be far to selfish to keep someone so great all to himself. he couldn’t make anyone happy. he didn’t deserve harry; he never did, he never will.

so, for the first time in a half hour, he got up. as if in a trance, feeling more light than he’d ever felt, louis made his way to the bathroom. where things were made only to break down. romantic, really. the bathroom was the place where he could close his eyes and cover his ears and pretend everything was okay. the place where the smell of rubbing alcohol wasn’t suffocating.

he couldn’t even cry. he knew that he should be, and he wished that he were, but it simply wouldn’t come out. the emotions inside of him were dulled before they could properly be expressed. and he hated that. so he did what he knew best.

he loved watching the red ooze out of him as if they were his emotions—it was much easier that way, as he didn’t have to articulate into words or tears to release what he felt. he hated himself for it, though. his thighs were more scar tissue than unscathed skin. it looked as if he’d been dipped in candle wax and it was dripping off of him as it was drying; sticky, hot, and disfigured. fitting for himself, louis thought.

when harry returned, standing before him in the act, he hated himself all over again. it was a repeat of just less than twenty-four hours ago. but this time, he wasn’t covered by a towel, and harry could see him for the monster he was.

louis no longer cared, though. the more disgusted harry was by him, the easier leaving would be. the easier it'd be on harry. “lou… what the _fuck_?”

the blue-eyed boy’s lip was trembling, but he didn’t know why. this wasn’t supposed to be so hard. “just leave me be, harry. i don’t want to be involved with you anymore. give me my keys back, delete my number, and we can pretend that none of this ever happened.”

“you can’t do this to me, louis william tomlinson,” harry snarled, “you can’t fucking do this to yourself.”

“i can, and you’re watching me. for both your sake and mine, just leave. leave and never come back, or i will. i would have, already, but this is my apartment.”

“why the fuck are you pushing me out again? who do you think you are?” harry wasn’t angry anymore, he never was, but it was just so much easier to think about it that way, to imagine that louis was hurting him, instead of coming to terms with the fact that louis was hurting himself.

“i am no bird, no net ensnares me; i am a free human being, with an independent will; which i now exert to leave you.”

“jane eyre? you think you can fix everything and made me understand by quoting a book? is this your fucked up definition of _beautiful_? of having the last word?”

louis swallowed. he didn’t think this would be so hard, considering his feelings—or, more accurately, lack thereof—before harry had arrived. he imagined a clean cut, a perfectly executed separation that would allow him to return to his sense of normalcy before he’d stumbled upon the hurricane that embodied itself in a curly-headed lad. “i don’t need you, harry.” he said carefully, as steadily as he could before he felt the tears welling up in his chest. _“i don’t need you.”_

at this point, harry was crying, as well. but the anger was gone and replaced by pure exhaustion, an exhaustion that wouldn’t disappear even if he were to sleep for days. “i know you don’t, louis. but i want to be here for you, anyway.”

“i don’t want you here.”

“i don’t care what you say you want. we both know that this isn’t the ending that you truly want.”

harry could see the ocean boy’s resolve shatter right behind his eyes. the eyes that had somehow turned a leaden grey had flashed with color once again, albeit for just a second. it had disappeared right after, though, which made harry wonder whether he’d imagined it. “i’m doing this for you, harry. this isn’t want you want. i’m… i’m used. i’m damaged goods. so please, just run and don’t look back. you’re worth more than this. i promise, i won’t hold any resentment if you were to just turn around and leave without a word right in this moment.”

the anger that the younger boy thought was long gone made a sudden reappearance, and before he knew it, he was yelling. “stop fucking telling me what to do like you know me! you’re always the one telling me to stop assuming things about you, but now you’re the one doing it to me. what the fuck do you know, louis? why do you think you can tell me what’s good for me and what’s not good for me? why the fuck do you think i’ve stayed all this time? i don’t have to know the whole story to know that you’re fucked in the head—i’m not stupid, i know that much. but i’ve stayed anyway! so who are you to put words in my mouth?” harry was breathing hard at this point, a mixture of having said everything in one breath, and his anxiety finally catching up to him.

before louis could respond, the larger boy fell to his knees and started gasping for air. louis tried to get up, red still dripping down his thighs, but he didn’t have the energy and only managed to make the room spin again.

so they just stayed there, two boys who couldn’t help each other, trying to regain a real sense of the world and their places in it. for all they knew, the universe could be caving in on itself outside, but it didn’t matter. right now, it was just the two of them.

“i’m… i’m sorry.” louis said, defeated, although he wasn’t sure if harry had heard him; as he was still trying to catch his breath. “breathe with me, harry. you got this. it’s hard, i know, but you have to breathe, okay?” he wished he could hold the boy to calm him down like the other had done for him in the bathroom of the bar the first time they’d met, but there was no power in his legs, so all he could do was hold his hand.

after a few minutes, harry had calmed down, still not able to feel his face or hands, entire body shaking with what felt like tv static, but he’d regained his breath and his train of thought. “lou… please just let me _try.”_

it hurt him. he knew that this was wrong and that he should be running as far as possible from harry to protect him. his panic was _his_ fault, after all. but he couldn’t bring himself to. “okay…” he breathed, “but if you ever feel the need to pull away, i understand. just remember that, okay? i just want what’s best for you.”

“and yourself?”

“what?”

“do you want what’s best for yourself?”

“that’s less important.”

“why?”

“because like i said, i’m already damaged goods. it’s not going to do me any good if i try to protect myself further.”


	15. maybe we are mayflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of suicide , binging/purging , trauma . mostly sweet and just fluff , though. just mentions and memories.
> 
> comments mean everything to me; i highly appreciate feedback. follow me on twitter if you haven't already, i promise i'm nice (@/louflymehome). 
> 
> love you, stay safe. xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time is fleeting, and our lives mean nothing in the grand scheme of things

they cried. a lot.

harry never thought it was possible to cry this much in just a span of twenty-four hours. but at the same time, he’d never been so _gone_ for someone.

“i don’t care what has happened to you or how you deal with things. either way, you’re still the same louis i love. nothing’s changed, even now that you’ve shown me this side of you. if anything, i want to protect you even more fiercely.”

the fluorescent white light was still beating on the two unrelentingly; a painful sight for tired eyes. it was still odd for louis, having someone else in his bathroom with him. the place he’d spent his weary mornings and lonely nights was suddenly inhabited by another. “stop saying that, harry. you’re signing yourself up for something gruesome can’t even begin to describe.”

harry smiled, tension dissipating in his chest and shoulders. louis was warning him and quietly resisting, but not fighting back so forcefully anymore. it was progress. “good thing i’m into gruesome,” he teased, “i’m a pretty weird guy myself, you know?”

louis’ light was returning to him and his eyes were beginning, just slightly, to go back to being that shade of powder blue harry had loved so much. they still seemed muted, but it was a step from where they were just ten minutes ago. “kinky little shit.”

“welcome back,” harry said, without really thinking, although to anyone else it would seem oddly placed and awkward. it made perfect sense to them, though.

“glad to be.”

harry crawled a bit closer to the older boy, still sat down against the wall. “let’s get to bed, shall we? i’m going to have to clean you up first, though.”

as if only just becoming aware that he was only in his boxers and a thin sweater, louis jumped and scrambled to cover his legs in shame. what was calm earlier was no longer. “um, i- i’ll, i’ll do it myself. just go lie down, okay, haz? don’t worry, i’ll be there in a little bit.”

harry frowned. “i want to help you, though. and i could carry you to bed after, too.”

“no. i promise i can deal with this on my own.”

“you always say that. and you’re still bleeding, so stop that.”

louis’ hands were now a sticky red as well, from having pressed his palms to his open cuts. his face, he realized, also had a thin layer of blood and dried tears from having rubbed at his eyes so much earlier. “i’ll wash up. i’m used to this, harry. how do you think i’ve functioned for all these years?”

_“years?”_

“yes, love. years. now hurry along, let your elders deal with their own stuff now, yeah?” the blue-eyed boy joked, albeit humorlessly. “you can turn the space heater on in the bedroom. it’s getting quite chilly outside, now. i hope you didn’t catch a cold today when you were out.”

harry could only concede to louis’ requests, as he seemed so adamant to push harry out of the bathroom. he was too tired to argue any more, anyway. so he just went to bed, lying face down, drowning himself in the ocean boy’s scent. it was all lavender and softness and fresh sheets. he loved it, so much so that he wished he could get a candle of louis’ smell. it would burn brightly in every room he’d be in, and it’d make everything much easier.

candles were usually a hit-or-miss for harry, but he was sure if a candle smelled of the boy he was in love with, it would be a surefire hit. his lungs would reject certain brands with particularly strong scents, and he'd grow frustrated with himself with how rebellious it was against its owner, but he grew so accustomed to it over the years that it was now a part of him. 

better, he thought, than one having their mind rebel. because when that’s the case, it tricks you into thinking that it’s right, and there’s no point in fighting back. that’s a problem that louis had to deal with every single day, he realized, sadly.

as if on cue, the boy in question reappeared from the bathroom, reminding harry of how unwell he really was. emotions were too high in the moment to process, but _louis was dying._

he was so thin that he shook with every movement, his eyes were encircled by dark rings harry didn’t even know could be so apparent on a human’s face, his bare, bony legs were now wrapped in white bandage. it was disgusting, to be very honest.

there was absolutely nothing beautiful about having to watch the boy he loved, who was thin to begin with, become more and more of a walking corpse. there was nothing beautiful about wondering when it’d all become too much and louis would be reduced to a pile of bones six feet beneath the earth.

the dusty soil and dead grass of the cold months wouldn’t do him justice.

harry didn’t like to think about it, though.

“lou, come join me in bed,” harry whined, pitching his voice upward like that of a child. “hurryyy.” 

“you didn’t turn on the space heater like i asked you to, harold,” the blue-eyed boy chuckled, “now it’s cold.”

“you didn’t ask me to, you just said i could. besides, this means you need to cuddle up closer to me, now.”

much to harry’s surprise, louis only hummed at this, no cheeky comebacks or anything. “i suppose that’s true,” he said as he climbed onto the mattress and nuzzled himself against the taller one’s chest. it was funny, how well he had fit into harry’s arms. as if the two of them were made with the other in mind.

harry flinched at how cold louis’ body was. it was an unnatural chill that made him want to throw up. he didn’t know something alive cold have such little body heat-- a cruel reminder that if something weren’t done, his ocean boy could evaporate at any second. terrifying, really.

“did you end up finishing that one book? faulkner?”

“ _as i lay dying_.”

harry shifted in discomfort once more. although he was familiar with the novel, those words escaping louis’ mouth, especially at this point in time, made him all the more scared. he squeezed the boy tighter. if he weren’t so afraid that the louis would crumble in his arms, he’d hold onto him much closer. “right. what did you think?”

“it was interesting. the end made me think for days, and i began questioning who to really trust. none of them were sane, not really. the dad pissed me off. he was so unbearably selfish. shame that there really are people like that out there.” louis said, looking solemnly at the ceiling, as if he were analyzing its pattern like it wasn’t the same ceiling he saw every night he laid on this bed. “i really like how faulkner writes. i’ve probably said this before. even though the vernacular can be hard to get used to and digest, i do think the way he writes is so carefully forged; it’s fascinating. i’d like to be able to write like that someday.”

“you should show me the things you write someday.”

“only if you let me listen to your songs, as well,” louis smiled mushily. “i’ve heard you play a little bit, but not nearly enough. and i want to hear your beautiful voice.”

“i-it’s not that good,” harry stuttered, embarrassedly. “still a work in progress.”

“that’s fine. we are all works in progress for as long as we walk this earth, after all.”

louis had a beautiful mind, as harry had come to recognize. he was all old book smell and afternoons spent wrapped in blankets and hot mugs in cold hands. and harry loved that. “okay. maybe sometime. for now, though, let’s sleep, yeah?” the clock read 02:23; both boys’ eyes were beginning to feel heavy and their words were slurring together into a single shape.

“yeah. good night, harry.”

unfortunately, the hope for a long, dreamless sleep was a little too high of a hurdle for louis most nights. he was so tired that he could barely breathe, feeling the weight of harry’s arms around him. every time he moved, even if it were just a finger, he could feel his heart palpitate only to slow to what he knew where dangerous lows when he stilled. it was as if his body did allow him to sleep in fear that it would fail him during his slumber.

when he did finally drift into darkness, however, it didn’t last for long. minutes would pass and his brain would create these awful images of sweaty hands coming for his face, his chest, between his legs. he’d be jolted awake from fear and overtaken by tremors. this sequence of events was something he grew acquainted with, though, showing up at both the best and the worst of times. but somehow, he could never quite outrun the fear and worthlessness that would surface with each nightmare.

harry continued sleeping soundly, and the ocean boy tried to pry himself from the younger’s arms. it was now nearly four in the morning, and although he didn’t want to disturb harry’s sleep, he couldn’t exactly stay fixed in bed, the place where all the horrors of his mind would manifest.

so he slid out of the curly-headed boy’s hold with some difficulty, and headed to the living room for a smoke and some peace. he hated how hungry weed would make him. it wasn’t exactly a hunger so much as just salivating, as if his body were begging for sustenance. it never made him hungry before, until he’d spent a night high and binging and purging and realized how good the drug made food taste. ever since then, his body would plead for that feeling again whenever he smoked, making louis avoid marijuana the best he could. nicotine was a good substitute, much more calming; something that he was more used to. but it wasn’t the same, especially the nights where his brain scream and tear at his insides, getting the better of him.

he’d imagine sticking his hands into his mind and ripping out the almond-shaped amygdala. he learned in a class a few years back that it was what’s primarily responsible for his emotional functions—dysfunctions, in louis’ case—and that it was what triggerd that intense, undying fear when even the smallest things incited the worst memories.

he hated it. it would be much easier to simply erase what was there, to start anew. he’d considered ending it all before, but could never bring himself to do so. in his younger days, there were times he’d tried and failed. it was much harder, then, to find enough privacy and space to die successfully when his mother would watch him through what felt like every single little task. he loved his mother. she was a wonderful person, but he could never bring himself to open up to her, or anyone. too much trouble for both parties.

louis’ thoughts were interrupted by a shuffle coming from the bedroom and was met with tired green eyes once again. “what are you doing?”

“nothing. couldn’t sleep. needed a smoke. why are you up?”

“i opened my eyes, and you weren’t there.” harry whispered, voice still heavy with sleep. “got worried.”

“i’m fine, hazza. you know. just have trouble sleeping sometimes. a smoke or two usually does it.”

harry walked up closer to the ocean boy and wrapped his arms around him from behind. louis tensed, then relaxed. _it’s just harry, after all._ “i didn’t know where you’d gone. missed you. hate waking up alone.”

the older boy chuckled lightly, warmth flowing into him from harry’s chest. “let’s go back, then, shall we?”

“yeah,” the taller pouted, “let’s.”

oddly, louis had braced himself for more anxiety and dark memories as he reentered the bedroom, but nothing came. he was just filled with _harryharryharry_. he felt safe, for once, it felt. he could get used to this.

but he scolded himself as soon as that thought passed. of course he couldn’t get used to it. he shouldn’t get used to this. not when harry could leave at any moment. he bit his lip, and as if the other boy could sense these malicious thoughts, he pressed a kiss to louis’ neck.

“i love you.”


	16. petrichor and its effects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why does the smell of rain make me so lonely?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// implied self harm 
> 
> stay safe! i don't know how i feel about this chapter tbh. but follow me on twitter and comment; it'd make me happy. x
> 
> -

harry started sleeping over at louis’ more and more frequently. his presence in the smaller boy’s apartment had become so familiar that louis felt a hole whenever harry wasn’t there. although he’d started out persistently against the everyday visits that usually morphed into sleepovers, he eventually stopped arguing back, and having the curly boy there became a given.

he also left traces of himself in the place, which louis found to be extremely endearing. it was now much more clean, the dishes and laundry were more consistently done, and the fridge was always full.

something that hadn’t changed, however, was louis’ bad nights, bad habits, bad feelings. it was even worse when he could practically feel harry’s libido drifting through the air. ever since that first night they had met, he’d always felt so inadequate for not being able to provide the other boy with what was expected of him in the first place.

but harry was wonderful about it; as he was about most things. he hadn’t pushed any further or mentioned that night since. it was clearly still a very open wound, a land mine harry feared that he would accidentally tread on if he weren’t careful.

he could never bring himself to ask _why._ it would be a lie if he were to say that he didn’t want anything like that of louis—with his beauty and all. he wanted everything. but not if he had to see those empty eyes, frozen in terror again. there were other things he could do to get his sexual frustration out, after all. but there wasn’t anything he could do to erase his ocean boy’s pain.

funny, harry thought, that he’d begun to think of louis as _his_. sure, they were close now, but he had to more or less force himself into the older boy’s life. after all, if louis had it his way, he’d be alone so as to not be a danger to anyone but himself. to waste away in peace, without having to worry anyone. even harry knew—the less people cared, the easier it would be to disappear with no trace-- that’s what louis had always longed for.

he cursed himself for being such a heavy sleeper at times. there were nights where they’d both go to bed, in each other’s arms, with harry thinking that nothing could be more perfect. but in the morning, louis would wake up with a different shirt and different joggers than he went to bed in, and harry knew what that implied. no one gets up in the middle of the night to change without reason.

he wished he were better at confrontation. if that were the case, everything would go so much more smoothly. he’d have been able to help louis better, avoiding all that marred flesh.

but it wasn’t so easy. the smallest things would set the ocean boy off, things that would confuse harry to no end. whether it were lightning, or daisies, or the way he’d stroke louis’ back. there were some things harry had learned not to do; phrases to not say, things to not cook, color combinations to not wear. of course, he couldn’t tell louis that he’d noticed his triggers, or it would rewind their relationship all the way back to step one.

louis was adamant on not letting any part of him slip between the cracks. despite having known harry for a little longer now, he never opened up voluntarily. every time was due to harry finding out by chance or by sheer luck. and every time, louis would curl back into himself, as if ashamed of what he was, even when he was so beautiful.

there were nights when harry thought that the boy was too much for even _him_ to handle. never in a way that he’d actually consider leaving, but times when he'd be tired from school and finally home after being yelled at by a customer at work. to say it was just mentally taxing to look after louis would be an understatement. he feared that he would snap one day, and say things he didn’t mean that would destroy the comfort they had forever.

harry wasn’t a therapist. he knew he couldn’t keep this up for long. as much as he loved the boy, the help that he could provide, no matter how hard he tried, wasn’t even close to enough. louis was truly so, _so broken._

sometimes he’d try to have that conversation, only for the ocean boy shut it down immediately.

“i don’t need to see anyone, harry. i’m not sick; i’m fine.”

“i love you, but you’re sick in so many ways. i can’t believe you can’t see it.”

“why is it always ‘i love you, but,’ from you? why is it always ‘but’? if i’m becoming too much of a burden, then just leave. that beaten path is always there for you to take.”

“no, button. that’s not what i meant. i _do_ love you. i just want for you to be as happy as possible.”

it felt like they had that conversation as often as every couple of nights. something would happen, harry would try to bring it up, louis would grow defensive, and they’d backpedal to avoid a real fight. it was vexing, to say the least, since he felt so helpless when it came to the boy, when the other was always there during nights where harry’s worry would get the best of him like it always had. louis would rush to his side with no qualms, gently prying the pain from him to wield as his own.

he’d always give soft whispers of encouragement, warm mugs of homemade mocha lattes, whisking harry away from whatever bad place his mind had dredged him through and they’d end the night with cuddles; harry forgetting about whatever it was he had been worrying about, since in front of him was beautiful eyes that were a color that reminded him of innocent afternoons from his childhood—running up and down a hill that had a tree with a tire swing hand-in-hand with his sister, gemma, only to get tired and spend lazy hours writing in his diary and watching the clouds.

louis tomlinson was the biggest hypocrite harry knew. it was maddening to understand that the boy could make harry feel so loved and special and cherished, yet not accept any good comments about himself. all his smiles at compliments were forced, and he’d only say ‘thank you’ to not raise suspicion, to make harry shut up. but harry knew pressing harder would only embarrass him, so he didn’t.

he wished he did, though, every time. after the topic was long gone and their conversation had drifted so far that the subject was unsalvageable, harry would curse himself internally for not being able to make louis believe that everything positive about him was true; that he was the embodiment of every good thing the in world. from sugary syrup to the papery wings of butterflies that fluttered like the ocean boy’s eyelashes on some sunny days, despite the chill that came from the steadily approaching winter months. they were surprisingly diligent in their journey to a warmer place, which both boys would find amazing. such short lifespans and small bodies, yet still trying to carry themselves across borders, or even oceans.

maybe louis was just a butterfly with dismantled wings.

he tried, that much was clear. there were nights he’d be in bed with harry, willing himself to stay put, to not make himself even more disgusting that he already was. and sometimes that went better than others.

it wasn’t like harry didn’t notice the boy getting worse and worse—he had, and thinking about it brought tears to his eyes, but he never understood how exactly to go about the situation. because there were times that he’d think that everything was okay; they’d watch movies and laugh and do normal couple things (despite not exactly being a couple), they’d talk about literature (harry left the novel he picked up at the library discreetly on louis’ coffee table, hoping he’d notice—he hadn’t yet), and spend nights nuzzled up against each other like it was meant to be. and maybe it was.

it was after several repetitions of this cycle when harry got a text from zayn, the boy from the library as louis peeked playfully from behind his shoulder.

 **+44 398XXXXXXX:** heyy, this is zayn, the guy from the library. i was wondering if you wanted to, i dunno, get a coffee or something sometime? _(sent at 20:32)_

“you gave your number to a cute boy, huh?” louis pouted, attempting to mask his jealousy with teasing, unsuccessfully.

“he works at the library. i forgot my card and i guess when i had to recite my number to check out a book, he kept it. a very nice library, by the way. i’d like to take you one day.”

“oh, yeah? what was his name again?”

“zayn.”

louis raised his eyebrows. “zayn? as in zayn malik?”

“um, i don’t know, he didn’t tell me his last name. why? you know him?”

“pretty hazel eyes, dark hair, long eyelashes, cool tattoos?”

“yeah…” harry nodded, carefully.

“him and i have been mates since middle school! he’s the friend i told you about. i didn’t know he got a job at a library, though…” louis said, excitedly, before his tone became somber. “i feel like i know nothing about him anymore. we don’t really talk much, but it happens every once and a while, and when we do hang out again it’s like we were never apart.”

harry smiled, relieved at how things had turned out. small world, really. to think that the boy hitting on him at the library would be one of louis’ close friends. “well, i better respond to him, then,” he said, turning away from the other boy.

“hey! what are you being so secretive for? something i shouldn’t know about?”

harry only smiled cheekily before showing louis the screen of his phone.

 **harry:** sure, but i’m interested in someone rn. you’re familiar with him, one of your close friends, actually. we should grab lunch; the three of us :) x _(sent at 20:39)_

“you dumbass,” louis blushed, “he’s going to think you’re an asshole for shooting him down before he could even try.”

“what can i say? i’m so enamored by you, i don’t have time to look at anyone else.”

the ocean boy buried his face in harry’s chest at that, trying not to be too happy about what he’d just heard. it was as if harry was his and he was harry’s. the very thought made him both shrink in fear of becoming more attached than he was, but also overcome by warmth and fuzziness. “you absolute wanker, you.”

momentarily forgetting about everything else, all the ugliness in the world, they only laughed with each other and imagined what it would be like if things were to stay this way forever. but time doesn’t stand still and its fleeting nature makes it so that every moment is lost in an instant.

harry wished he could bottle this night and put it in a tin to admire whenever he sat at his desk, reminding him of simpler times when things got hard; so he could hold it to his chest and hope that louis would never change.


	17. what becomes of the tin man when he wishes to disappear?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the gods lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// vomit , eating disorder behavior
> 
> stay safe! comment if you can, it makes my day, honestly (i need validation lol, recently been feeling like my chapters are shit). thanks for reading this far! x
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

harry knew that it was foolish of him to think that he could simply wish his problems away. nothing in this world works that way. miracles don’t exist, and god doesn’t hear anybody’s prayers—if he did, he didn’t listen. and that, the green-eyed boy thought, would be much worse than being ignorant.

it’d be hypocritical, though, to be frustrated at god for ignoring those suffering, harry figured. he was doing the same thing to louis’ agony, in essence. looking away, hoping that everything would be okay when he opened his eyes again.

it wasn’t that he didn’t care. he did; he cared about the boy more than anything, or anyone else. but to accept that he was truly _wasting away_ felt eerily like admitting defeat. that harry wasn’t able to help him alone. that he wasn’t enough to convince louis of how loved he was. how special he was.

so when he set up plans for the two to spend time with zayn for an afternoon at the park, he decided to throw everything else out the window and have fun without reproach. and it started out quite smoothly; the three of them had agreed to meet at noon and grab lunch at a food truck. they’d chosen that saturday for that purpose—an array of taco trucks, sandwich trucks, ice cream trucks, and even crepe stands would line up on the perimeter of the park; an event that happened every final saturday of each month.

louis and harry were the first to arrive, around ten minutes earlier than their noon meetup time. it was a habit that louis had picked up from growing up with all sisters who were perpetually late. everything was done under the assumption that something would happen and put him behind schedule. it had actually improved harry’s lifestyle as well, with all the time they were spending together. he complained constantly about the fact that he would be woken up far before he’d actually need to in order to be on time for class or work, but the routine did end up sticking with him, even on mornings he didn’t spend at louis’ flat. the idea that bits of louis were making their way into harry’s everyday life made him irrationally happy, slapping a stupid-looking grin on his face whenever the subject showed itself in his mind. it made him feel closer to the ocean boy, after all.

seeing zayn again made harry struck by his beauty once more, his eyelashes and olive skin and golden demeanor. but it was nothing compared to the reaction it’d gotten from louis. when he looked over at the ocean boy, it felt like falling in love for the first time again. his eyes had softened, corners being pulled down by sweetness and nostalgia, fighting a smile that harry wished would show itself without hesitation. he realized, in that moment, he’d never seen one of louis’ immodest smiles—they were always quick to be covered by a hand, or fought back, as if being happy were something to be punished for. his heart prickled with uncertainty for the boy.

he was quickly taken out of deep thought, though, by zayn’s milky voice. “hey lads! louis! i haven’t seen you in forever. how’ve you been? and harry, nice to see you again, i thought you were fit but if louis’ your man then i can’t exactly complain, can i? a handsome man for another handsome man.”

“oh shut up, malik!” chimed louis, “you aren’t exactly any less flashy than harry over here. although… he is quite special, huh?”

“you two are _whipped_. it makes me feel all fuzzy inside just to watch. but also a little mad,” zayn laughed. “let’s get going, shall we? i’m starving.”

harry felt louis falter beside him, but force a laugh anyway. “yeah, let’s go.”

harry settled on a traditional taco stand, getting a tray of three, while zayn chose a banh mi from a vietnamese stand. when louis said he wasn’t very hungry and settled on just lemonade, harry and zayn shared a look that told the curly-haired boy that they both knew what was going on. but neither said anything about louis’ choice in lunch, wanting to avoid conflict after having just met.

“so, tommo, it’s been a while. what’s been going on? you stopped responding to my texts,” zayn said casually, “like i understand. not upset with you or anything, just worried. glad you’re getting on well more than anything.”

“oh, i… i guess things just started moving faster and i never got around to it. and i figured you’d be busy as well, anyway. like, i didn’t want to increase your burden, you know?”

harry and zayn looked at each other and furrowed their eyebrows in one breath. “i’m never too busy for you, lou. and… you’re not a burden.”

louis blushed. “that’s—that’s not what i meant. but thanks. i appreciate it. i do miss your company, after all.”

zayn mellowed. “i’m always here.”

the three of them spoke for a little longer, harry and zayn laughing and bonding over embarrassing stories of the blue-eyed boy. before they’d met, harry was always skeptical of zayn, who had left louis hanging all this time, not doing anything about his pain. getting to know him now, though, proved to be fruitful, though. he was a lovely person who had his own life, but cared about louis fiercely, just as he did.

it was when louis got up shakily to use the restroom that they’d lowered their voices. “is he really okay?” zayn questioned, “i know he’s had a hard time. just all his life, you know. there were some things that happened before that he never got over. and he’s not the best at reaching out for help when he needs it.”

“what?” harry breathed, “what happened? i mean, i knew there was _something_ , but he never told me.”

“don’t take it personally. he never told me, either. i only know because i knew him around the time it’d happened.”

“what was it?” the younger was reeling in curiosity, though he knew that it wasn’t his place to find out without louis’ approval. “actually, you don’t have to tell me. if he hasn’t told me yet, there must be a reason.”

“yeah, was goin’ to say. it’ll take a while. but if it’s you, harry, i’m sure he will. i know i don’t know you very well yet, but i can feel it.” zayn smiled reassuringly. “no offense, though, he looks like death. a literal walking corpse. what’s been going on? i know… he’s had problems with like, food, and stuff for forever, but it’s never gotten this bad. have you been doing anything about it?”

“i’ve been trying, mate. he doesn’t want to go see anyone about it. doesn’t even think he has a problem. i’m kinda tied up about it, too. what do you think?”

“well, you have to do something! i don’t care if it’s against his will, but this is getting out of hand, harry. you’ve got to understand.”

harry felt anger bubbling inside him at the accusation. “where have _you_ been, zayn? you knew him all this time, and you knew about his problems, didn’t do anything, and now you’re lecturing _me_ for not taking proper care of him?”

the dark-haired boy flinched. “i… i- i’m sorry. that’s not how i meant to come across. i know it’s hard. things have been picking up for me as well. i know i should have been paying more attention to him.”

harry sighed, sobering up after how strained zayn’s words sounded. “no, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to get mad. he’s not your responsibility. and you’re right, i should be doing something. if here hearing this right now, he’d probably say that he’s no one’s responsibility, and he can take care of himself. but it absolutely breaks me as well to see how he’s killing himself. i just don’t know what to do. i want to take him to see, you know, a professional, but he won’t listen to anything i say.”

“he doesn’t exactly have the best experience with that kind of thing. it’s a rough spot for you to be put in.”

“but i love him.”

zayn smiled gently. “i know. i do too, so if you ever need anything, let me know. he cares about you immensely as well; i could see it right away. you two are honestly sickening with how in love you guys are.”

“he rejected me,” harry said sadly, “we’re nothing more than friends.”

“don’t tell me you believed him.”

“i mean, what else can i do? he told me he didn’t need me. and i understand. louis’ going through a lot right now. not in the best place to worry about anyone else.”

“he loves you, harry.” zayn pressed, “are you going to give up?”

“i don’t think i could if i tried,” he laughed dryly. “don’t worry. i don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.”

“just take care of yourself, too, H.”

when the conversation had died down, it hit the two boys, how long louis’ spent in the bathroom. they looked at each other again, wide-eyed, not having to exchange a word to come to an understanding. “i’ll go check on him,” harry said quickly, feeling something very wrong creeping up on the back of his mind. he prayed that he was wrong.

“i’m coming with.”

he wasn’t quite sure of god’s existence, but if god did end up turning out to be real, he’d like to try to see eye to eye with him someday. whether it was in a dream or after death. to be the creator of everything, to be the father of all; he must have some sort of compassion for each living being, no? so why were the unfortunate forced through so much pain they didn’t deserve? or maybe they did, all along, as karma for something they had done in a past life?

or maybe, harry considered, god had so many children he saw individuals as disposable. it would make sense, really, because in the end, no single person is important when there are so many more that are the same, if not better.

so when he found the ocean boy he was so in love with crumpled on the floor of the rancid public restroom of the park, he wondered why god was so cruel to the best, most beautiful people. and above all, why louis’ motionless body somehow looked so peaceful in a fucked up way.

the first thing harry did was rush to a toilet as the tacos he’d eaten earlier saw their way right out of the place they’d entered.


	18. fanfare for the common man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> did everything feel peaceful again when your lips collided with the cold, hard tile?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// eating disorder - medical stuff as a result , vomit . 
> 
> stay safe! feedback is very much appreciated, and follow me on twitter pls i want friends omg
> 
> -

it really wasn’t sudden at all. bound to happen from the very beginning, really. but harry just hadn’t expected it to be so _soon_.

why was it always the bathroom? the first time harry saw him, the first time they had properly met, the first time he saw louis break down, and now, the first time he’d witnessed the first time the ocean boy’s body truly fail him.

it was disgusting. even worse than the bar, undoubtedly. the tile floors were stickier; every step harry took was audible and making it just that much harder to move in the midst of his shock. as he was bent over the toilet, the smell of everything seemed to nag at him. the acidity of vomit burning his nose and throat, the odor of urine beating down on him from every direction, the sweat he hadn’t realized was dripping off of him, already having soaked through his shirt so much that it was translucent.

he imagined what it would feel like to be louis, lying face down on the bug-infested, muggy ground that probably hadn’t been properly cleaned in years. it made him squirm to think about; a real wonder how louis was still so tranquil and unmoving. as if some force greater than gravity was pulling him down with the intention to swallow him whole.

the thought made even more vomit rise from his stomach and fill his mouth, but he didn’t react quick enough- so harry just had a mouthful of it, coating his teeth with the warm substance until he could bend over the toilet again.

he realized that he hadn’t locked his stall when he felt someone approach him and rub his back. “mate, i don’t want to rush you because i know it’s hard and scary for you as well… but i think we need to get going. louis needs the hospital, and quick. he’s not responsive at all.”

the green-eyed boy, whose eyes were now unfocused and flitting to every corner of the room, was grounded with a single word. _hospital._ wordlessly, he stood up and rushed to louis’ side, ignoring the next wave of nausea that was sure to come over him. there was nothing remaining in his stomach to throw back up, after all.

zayn had turned louis over so that he was facing upward, which was even more scary. his eyes were half open with only whites showing, wrist twisted at an unnatural angle, mouth slightly open. harry felt what had been intense fear turn into dread. it just felt so much more _real,_ as if it hadn’t sunk in before that it was _louis, his louis_ on the ground, unconscious. now that he could see his face, it was so much worse.

“he… he’s alive, right?” harry whispered dumbly, too stricken by the situation to really think about what was coming out of his mouth. other than vomit, of course.

“yes, but not for long if you just fucking stand there, you absolute buffoon! we’ve got to get out of here and to the hospital; quick. call a taxi.” zayn was now bending down to pick louis up in his arms.

“r-right.”

harry cursed himself for conceding when louis begged that they take the bus rather than the car on their way to the park, calling it more environmental. and it was, in more ways than one. certainly environmental once louis’ body was decomposing in the soil for the plants to consume, he thought bitterly.

the two waited for what felt like an eternity before their taxi had actually arrived. the nearest hospital was twenty minutes away, and he could feel louis’ pulse weakening at each passing minute. maybe it’d just been his imagination running wild with the irrational fears that flooded his mind, but he didn’t want to risk it.

his throat still burned from having thrown up everything in his system, and it made him wonder how louis could do this as often as once or twice a day. and from the yellow liquid that was too neon to be urine, he could tell that the ocean boy had just done it shortly before he passed out.

when they finally arrived and spoke with the nurses about the situation, they took a look at the boy and paled, calling for a doctor right away. “god, please just call an ambulance next time!” the first nurse who saw them had nearly screeched. not a good sign. as soon as a doctor with severe features arrived, they whisked the small boy to the ICU immediately after taking his vitals, not permitting zayn or harry to see him. 

all they could do was sit in the waiting room and hope that louis was alive, if nothing else. harry’s worry was beginning to take over his entire consciousness again; suddenly invoking visions of the doctor emerging from the closed doors to tell them the news that louis was gone.

he hated himself for underestimating the seriousness of what louis was going through- the boy had hidden it so well, as if every move, every smile had been carefully rehearsed in front of a mirror, and harry began to question how real their relationship even was, if the boy was capable of masking so much. what if it was all a façade, and he hadn’t cared for harry in the first place, after all?

ever since the two had met, harry never once considered a future without louis. from the very beginning, he’d fantasized about living forever with the boy, spending the rest of their lives in each other’s arms. it was hasty, he knew, but if it were louis, then it wouldn’t be so much of a stretch. he was convinced that they were _it_ for each other as soon as their eyes met for the first time.

so when his thoughts dragged harry through the depths of worst-case scenarios and catastrophic situations that it’d conjured up in a whirlwind of anxiety in the stiff, faux-leather hospital chairs, it felt like he was bent over that park toilet all over again.

louis was a house with no windows. you can see him from the outside and get a vague idea of what he’s like, but whatever is going on behind closed doors remains a mystery. and unless the boy himself invites you in, there is nothing harry can do about it. a boy that loves literature, writes poetry, smiles the most beautiful smile, the most caring and selfless person he knew- might slip right through his fingers, because he hadn’t seen the egregiousness of his pain.

harry wasn’t sure how much time passed before the doctor from earlier reappeared from the ICU. he was far too lost in his thoughts, but he assumed that it was substantial amount of time, as he was overcome by this exhaustion that couldn’t have manifested itself within a short period.

the doctor had all gray features, so much so that harry thought he had been plucked out of the real world and put in a film made in the mid-twentieth century. he had gray hair, gray eyes, a thick gray beard, and almost graying skin. or maybe harry was simply imagining things in the core of his panic.

zayn was the first to stand, frantically trying to figure out what was going on. “is he okay? what’s wrong with him? why were you in there with him for so long?” he demanded, all remnants of courtesy flying out the window.

“calm down, sir. if you would please. may i ask what relationship you have to mr. tomlinson? i hesitate to disclose such private information.”

zayn looked furious, lips gleaming with saliva from having yelled. “we are the people who brought him here. i’m his friend, and harry’s his-“

“boyfriend. i’m his boyfriend.” the younger boy was startled by his own answer; having suddenly snapped out of his daze and telling a barefaced lie.

zayn raised his eyebrows at harry, but nevertheless went with it. “right. harry’s his boyfriend, he has the right to know about louis.”

“and his family? have you contacted his family?” the doctor questioned, only irking zayn even more with each passing second.

“yes! i’ve called his mother,” he shouted, to which harry gave him a questioning look, and zayn responded with a nod, confirming that it was true. the green-eyed boy felt a twinge of guilt shoot through him; he hadn’t even thought about contacting louis’ family, nor did he know anything about his family. “his family is in doncaster, and i couldn’t give them any detail about lou’s condition so they’re hesitant to make the trip down here.” zayn said pointedly.

“alright. i hear you. please calm down,” the doctor sighed resignedly. “mr. tomlinson suffered from a seizure as a result of what we can assume to be anorexia nervosa. luckily, he will not suffer from any long-term brain damage as a result, but he’s extremely malnourished and his blood sugar levels were dangerously low, so we gave him an IV and a feeding tube. we’re waiting on the remainder of the bloodwork to return so that we can further assess the situation. but it was already quite grave- he had bradycardia and was at risk of congestive heart failure at any moment. he broke his wrist from the fall, as his bone density greatly decreased from what a normal adult’s should be. had you two not found him when you did, he may not have lived through this.”

harry felt his head spinning once more, guilt and fear flooding through his veins. _louis may not have lived if they didn’t find him early enough._ he would have been robbed of his sunshine if zayn and himself became lost in conversation and hadn’t noticed how long he was in the bathroom. harry humored this thought when they were in the taxi, but this felt so much more _undeniably forthright_.

zayn cut in. “can we see him?”

“i’m reluctant to allow more than one person with him at once for a few reasons,” the doctor glared. “he’s not stable yet.”

zayn softened, looking at harry. “you want to go?”

harry almost wanted to refuse. he didn’t want to see the boy he loved look so lifeless in a hospital bed. if things didn’t seem real now, they would be, with louis’ thin body connected to all these machines he couldn’t even pronounce and tubes going in and out of him from every direction. but he couldn’t back out now. “i… yeah.”

“understood. follow me…”

“harry styles.”

“right. follow me, mr. styles.”

the waiting room had smelled faintly of disinfectant, but in the room it was much more potent, making harry’s lungs tighten at the scent’s sharpness. everything was white, as if it were a movie. harry wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with hospitals, per se, but he rarely had to go. his family was generally quite healthy, and his asthma was never so severe that it called for an ER visit.

louis’ skin was a sickly yellow, hair much thinner than harry had remembered it. he was in a hospital gown, and the younger realized how blatant the ocean boy’s illness was. and how stupid he was for not forcing the boy to the hospital before it had gotten this bad.

“we put him in a medically-induced coma to avoid the risk of him waking up while we were inserting the feeding tube. he’ll regain consciousness sometime within the next 48 hours. when he does, we highly recommend having him speak with a psychologist and putting him into intensive care for his eating disorder as soon as everything stabilizes.” the doctor looked at harry with sympathy. “but he’ll be fine. you don’t have to worry so much; mr. tomlinson is in good hands.”

“r-right,” harry breathed, “thank you so much…”

“i’ve got to get going to the next patient. have a good rest of your day, sir,” the doctor said while exiting the room, to which the boy laughed at cynically. there was nothing about this that was good.

and just like that, it was only harry his ocean boy again.


	19. the moon woke me and left this heavy feeling in my chest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two seconds to prove to you that it's not the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// eating disorder , medical stuff
> 
> stay safe! your comments mean everything to me. also, my dms are always open. follow me on twitter @louflymehome

the next thirty-six hours were excruciating. zayn, despite not having seen the boy in so long before that day, broke into tears at the sight of louis’ emaciated body. harry had already cried so much that no more tears could come. he was walking in a world underwater, where no one’s words were clear or pronounced, and bubbles that didn’t disappear filled his ears.

he’d hoped that this was a sick dream that would end soon.

but it didn’t. zayn ended up going home for the night as harry fought with tooth and bone to stay by louis’ side, eventually getting permission from the doctor, despite not being family. he argued that he was the closest thing to family that louis had who wasn’t still in doncaster.

zayn had called louis’ mother after receiving news on his wellbeing, but she was still ill and had no way to make it down to london. dan—her husband and louis’ stepfather—needed to stay and take care of the girls. so for now, louis had only harry and zayn.

the curly-headed boy wanted to be awake when louis regained consciousness, so he tried to get as little sleep as possible, sitting by his side with a book. he’d taken the week off work to be with louis, and decided that he would skip classes for as long as he had to. the person he loved was more important, after all.

he had finished _a pale view of hills_ after just one night of staying beside the ocean boy. it was nostalgic, a novel about a mother who was grieving the death of her daughter going back and revisiting all these memories and revealing them to be more unsettling than what one would have expected. he didn’t quite understand as much about japanese culture as he would have liked, but travelling obviously remains a work in progress for as long as he remains a student. one day, though, harry imagined, he would take louis to japan and they would go see new places and eat new foods. they would go in april, when the cherry blossoms were in full bloom, and go on romantic walks during sunset and harry would pick pale pink petals out of louis’ hair and it would be perfect.

the thought brought harry into a spiral of fantasies and dreams of where he would take louis after he gets better. they’d kiss at the top of the eiffel tower, where harry would propose, and they could eat wonderful French cuisine and talk about stars while drinking the finest champagne. they’d rent bikes and ride around rome, seeing all of what they’d read about in books and remake the _call me by your name_ wrestling-in-the-grass scene. they’d visit new york, and see broadway plays and go window shopping, and harry would buy anything louis laid his eyes on. they’d love it there so much that they would buy their own little place so that they could go anytime they had the chance; a place with an indoor jacuzzi where they’d cuddle in warm, bubbly water and make silly faces and remind each other that this was all they needed.

harry opened his eyes and was reminded of the cruel reality that he was trapped in. louis was not smiling or holding his hand; louis was not giving him warm kisses and hot sex; louis was not talking wistfully about some philosophical ideal—louis was comatose in a hospital bed with what seemed like hundreds of machines looked up to him with the drone of a heart monitor in the background.

he was a dreamer.

and dreams are only that—dreams. they may never become anything past that, forever remaining stupid made-up fairy tales only fools hope would transpire. and harry didn’t want to be a fool.

a day had passed and louis still had not came to. the doctors insisted that this was normal, and that the older boy would wake up anytime between now and tomorrow, but harry was sick of waiting. the longer louis was still in bed made it more real that this was not just a normal sleep—he was so sick that he had a seizure. harry only imagined what it was like seconds after louis had collapsed on the bathroom floor, seizing and convulsing in a way that made his body writhe as if it were no longer human, but a lab rat that had been injected with a drug in some sick experiment, only to slowly become motionless until there was no life left in it.

he was sat there by louis’ side, tightly gripping his hand for over 24 hours until he’d finally fallen asleep. he’d fought it for so long but his eyelids felt as if they were made of pure lead and he ended up face planting into the side of louis’ bed.

harry woke up to the sound of a heart monitor racing, and the twisting of louis’ body. the fog of drowsiness had left him as soon as he realized that louis, too, was awake.

“babe, you’ve got to stop moving,” he whispered, panicked, as louis twisted and turned, looking panicked as he tugged at the feeding tube in his nose, and the beeping of the heart monitor seemed so loud and fast that harry’s own anxiety was starting to take over. “fuck! where’s the fucking call button?”

before he could find it, nurses scrambled into the room, slipping an oxygen mask on louis’ gaunt face, calming him down, the heart monitor gradually returning back to its slow tempo.

“i-is he okay?” harry said with quiet intensity, “what’s wrong?”

“he’s okay, just woke up in a different environment and experienced some anxiety. something very normal,” she reassured him. “i’ll call a doctor in now that he is conscious to assess the situation.”

harry nodded, mouth hanging open, as she left. he looked at the boy, who still seemed disoriented from it all. “how are you feeling?” he attempted, “i’m here. i’ve missed you.”

he noticed the ocean boy open his mouth, searching for an answer, but nothing came out. his throat was too sore and scratchy from the feeding tube as well as lack of use, so he just shook his head and squeezed harry’s hand. they were left in awkward silence for a few seconds, so harry decided to continue.

“you really scared me, love. but it’s okay. we’re going to get you help, okay? it’s going to get better. and i’ll be by your side through it all. i promise. we’ll get through this, button. i love you.” harry swallowed, “so never do that to me again.” his eyes were beginning to fill with tears, but _shit, he can’t cry now, not in front of louis, not when he had to be strong for things to seem okay._ but he couldn’t help it, it was as if a dam had been opened, and everything was flowing out.

louis frowned, wishing he could speak, so many questions begging to be answered, and the person he cared so much about sobbing at his bedside.

their emotional exchange was interrupted by the entrance of a doctor, this time a different one than the first one, thankfully. one that wasn’t gray or harsh or stern-looking, rather, this one seemed much warmer; it was a woman in her fifties with long blonde hair with hints of dulling from age and experience. she slipped the oxygen mask back off of his face and took a seat beside louis, across from harry.

“hello, boys. i see you have woken, louis. my name is dr. mathers, and i’m just going to ask you a few questions. i know it’s hard to speak right now so you can just nod or shake your head.” she smiled warmly, understanding the situation. “firstly, do you have an idea of why you might be here today?”

louis looked away, pursing his lips, but nodded slightly nonetheless.

“great. that’s a start. now, have you spoken with a therapist, or considered it?” the ocean boy shook his head. “okay, would you consider it?” louis shook his head again, and both harry and dr. matthers knit their brows. “okay, well, we’re going to have you speak with a psychologist in a couple of days regardless due to the severity of your eating disorder. we can discuss treatment when you are a little bit more physically stable, but you’re going to have to stay here for a little while longer.”

“how much longer?” harry urged, “how much longer until he can go home?”

“that’s a hard question. mr. styles. even after he’s physically stable, it’s highly recommended that he go to a residential care center for at least a couple of months to achieve weight restoration as well as full recovery on the mental side of things.” she replied bluntly, “i understand that you both want things back to normal, but in order lower the chances of relapse, it’s absolutely imperative that louis gets the help he needs as soon as possible. the fact that his body hadn’t given in up until now is incredible in itself.”

“r-right,” harry sighed, disappointed but willing to give up anything for his ocean boy, “whatever is going to get him healthy again.”

the doctor smiled warmly. “you guys have a beautiful relationship. louis is lucky to have such a caring boyfriend. don’t worry; it’ll be fine. there are a lot of success stories out there, and i believe that he can be one of them.”

louis smiled accusingly at the green-eyed boy at the word ‘boyfriend,’ who just looked away and rolled his eyes.

“now, nurses will take care of things and bring you your meals three times a day, along with three snacks. they’ll be in to take vitals and bring breakfast every morning at 7:30. we’ll be monitoring your progress in the meantime. the more you comply during this stage, the earlier you’ll be able to move on. a nurse will be in shortly to remove your feeding tube, and if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.” dr. matthers scribbled some notes before leaving. “have a nice day, and don’t forget that louis is to be on strict bedrest, which means zero physical activity, harry,” she joked, to which the younger boy blushed.

a nurse came in following dr. matthers’ departure with a tray, mostly empty with only alcohol wipes and gloves. “this is going to hurt a little, okay? i’ll give you a break in the middle, but it’ll be quick. it’s easier that way,” she removed the tape on louis’ nose and began pulling out the plastic tube. harry wasn’t there when they had inserted it, but it seemed painful; going through the nose and the esophagus straight to the stomach. he wanted wrinkled his nose at the thought.

the first half was okay, just a little scratchy. “okay. this might make you gag a bit, okay? i’m going to pull real quick the remainder.” when louis nodded, she continued. “okay, 3… 2… 1.” a quick tug, and louis felt the tube scrape the inside of his throat as it passed back up his nose. like the nurse had warned, he gagged slightly, strings of saliva dripping out of his mouth. “there, there. you did amazing. now that it’s out, you have to try your best to eat the food we give you, or you’re going to have to be tube-fed again. and we don’t want that,” she said gently, rubbing louis’ back as she stood up to leave. “alright. i’ll leave you two alone to relax.”

as soon as the door closed behind her, the ocean boy gave harry a smug look that made butterflies erupt in the younger’s stomach and chest. “oh, shut up, lou. i know you can’t speak but i already know what you’re going to say,” he blushed, “i had to say i was your boyfriend or they wouldn’t let me stay for so long.”

louis cleared his throat; a sick, raspy sound coming from him that didn’t even sound human. “was gonna say,” he croaked, “didn’t know i got a whole boyfriend during the time i was out, i should pass out more often, i guess.”

“don’t even think about joking like that, little shit. you don’t know how worried zayn and i were. i was afraid we were going to lose you.”

“zayn was here?”

“yeah. we found you passed out on the floor at the park. when you didn’t wake up, we brought you straight to the hospital. he went home earlier, but he’s definitely going to come this afternoon when he can. like i said, you gave us quite the scare.”

louis smiled sadly. “what time is it now?”

“it’s like two in the morning, love. you were out for a day and a half.”

“ah. you haven’t went home? haz, get some rest. please. i’m sorry for making you-“

“don’t finish that sentence. you didn’t ‘make’ me do anything. i’m here because i care. i _want_ to be with you through this.”

“you don’t even know me, harry,” louis said, voice fading at the end, as his throat was still raw. “i’m basically a stranger.”

“you’ve been saying that for weeks. you’ll never be more than a stranger if you don’t let me in.”

“i’m trying to save you the trouble. i’m not wor-“

harry was shaking, now. every time they’d have this conversation, he would feel white-hot, uncontrollable anger burst through his veins, begging to escape in the form of a yell. but he couldn’t, not at a hospital, not at a sick man. so he just inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes. “i fucking hate when you say that. we’ve talked about this before. don’t tell me what’s worth my time and what’s not. i make this decision.”

louis looked down. “o-okay.”

“i love you, you know that?”

the older boy hummed, but it sounded more like a gurgle.

“i’m being serious. i don’t care how much of a burden you tell yourself you are. i care about you, and i’m not going to give up on you, louis tomlinson. not even when you’ve given up on yourself.”

he wanted to cry in this moment, but closed his eyes instead. it was useless to argue with harry now, but it was still frustrating how much the boy didn’t know. all he could do was slip back into the warm threshold of sleep—despite having slept for over 24 hours, he felt this exhaustion come back over him, so he allowed it. whatever that would allow him to escape from the present.


	20. the vacant truths that we held onto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> is this what it means to fly?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// vomit , eating disorder 
> 
> WARNING: THE END OF THIS CHAPTER GETS VERY GRAPHIC. IF YOU ARE QUEASY WHEN IT COMES TO STUFF LIKE THAT, PLEASE TREAD WITH CAUTION.  
> stay safe! i actually feel better about this chapter compared to the last few. love you guys to pieces! also, if you are struggling with anything similar, don't be afraid to reach out. my dms are open. you are not alone.

louis wishes that he could return to the comatose state he was in. detached from everything ugly and tragic, encased in nothing but dark water. his normal nights were never like that.

they were dark, sure, but it consisted of the everything that he had so feared. memories he’d rather not be reminded of, foresights that strangled him with uncertainty, telling him that every little action of his would be the result of disaster.

like trusting harry. in the end, they’d only known each other for a little over a month. and here he was, allowing this total stranger to stay by his side while he rotted in a hospital bed. harry already knew too much. he knew that if this continued, then they’d be treading dangerous territory—one which the green-eyed boy would find out about the disgusting things that louis told himself were his fault, and leave.

being in the hospital was validating, in a way; proof to himself that his illness was truly severe enough to be considered _thin._ but it had also meant he’d failed. they’d tube-fed him god knows how many calories while he was asleep, the nauseating paste still present in his throat.

he never intended for it to get this bad. at first, it was just an alternate form of self-harm, because who was he to deserve food? who was he to be healthy and functional? so he stopped. it was a gradual waning of meals; a diet that started minor that became something so much more than that.

louis used to think that being so obsessive over weight and calories was pointless. he’d just done this to feel the gnaw of his stomach, the rush of knowing that he was hurting himself. it became something different when he decided to count calories as a numerical value of his success, though. it started being like a challenge, to each day eat less than the last.

the control was breathtaking, in more ways than one. something to focus on when the rest of the world seemed so demeaning. he often thought about how, when you try to drown, human survival instincts kick in and your body tries its best to get you to air. same when you are hanging—even up until your last moments, your body tries to go against everything that you allow it to do. in the darkest places, dying seemed like the best proof of self-control. but louis was always too much of a coward to truly kill himself; so he decided to do it slowly.

it’s not to say he was never self-conscious of his weight in the past—he’s always felt like he had a disproportionately girly body. his bum was too round and stomach too soft and thighs too jiggly. he didn’t like it, but he had never thought to do anything about it until recently.

it was a win-win, really.

the older boy’s thoughts were interrupted by harry stroking his cheek gently. “wake up, lou. the nurse is here to give you breakfast.” he’d actually been awake for a while, just feigning sleep because it was far too early in the morning to deal with harry’s harping. he adored the boy, but he was just _so tired._

“okay, okay.” he sighed, trying to calm while his heart was racing in his throat. there was a tray of food in front of him comprising of a bowl of oatmeal, some grapes, and a thick brown liquid that was far too viscous to be chocolate milk.

“try to eat all of it. if you don’t consistently finish your meals enough, you’ll have to get the tube. and the sooner you’re weight restored, the sooner you will be able to get out of here,” the nurse said sympathetically. “it’s for your own good.”

louis nodded, even though she had already turned her back and wouldn’t have been able to seen. he took a deep breath, feeling harry’s eyes boring into him expectantly. he’s never eaten more than a few bites in front of harry, and this experience was humiliating to say the least.

“i love you no matter what, lou,” the younger boy said softly, “don’t forget that, okay?”

he swallowed, poking at his grapes with the small plastic fork that came on the tray. normally, since it was just fruit, he wouldn’t be so hesitant—raw fruits and vegetables were safe. but when he thought about the tube that had been removed from his nose a couple of hours ago, everything felt so much more hazardous. there was already enough calories in him, he couldn’t afford to consume any more.

so he dug at his oatmeal, turning to harry. “how are you? you look like shit, and probably smell like shit, but my nose is clogged. go home and take a shower, for fuck’s sake.” his throat had started to feel a bit better, and though he still spoke with some difficulty, it was feasible.

“that’s not how you talk to someone who’s watched over you and held your hand all this time,” harry laughed, relieved that the boy had regained some of his bite. “zayn should be coming soon; he was going to wait until the afternoon, but heard you were awake and wanted to come as soon as possible.”

being like this in front of harry was hard enough, so the thought having the both of them looking at him with pitiful eyes—as if he were a dying animal—was nearly unbearable. “can he… wait a bit? i don’t know. i haven’t really seen him in so long and it just feels awkward that the first time we’ll have properly talked is when i’m looking like this.”

“you look fine, love. beautiful as always. just because you ran into a near-death situation does not take away from the fact that you are truly the prettiest person i’ve ever met.”

“it’s like i’m the only person that you’ve ever met,” louis snorted tersely.

“you’re the only person i’ve met that’s ever meant this much to me.” harry responded immediately, eyes serious, losing his joking note.

louis became a bit flustered at that, and only pushed around his oatmeal more, but it’s started to become stiff and cold. “i swear,” he laughed, trying to dispel the tension, “you really are something else.”

harry smiled before shifting his gaze to the oatmeal. “you haven’t eaten anything,” he pointed out, as if this were not a fact that louis was already aware of. “you’re just moving it back and forth.”

“i’m not hungry right now.” a reflex that the ocean boy smacked himself internally for allowing to slip out. of course harry wasn’t going to take that right now; he should have come up with something more creative.

“we’re here _,_ and you’re _still_ trying to say that?”

“didn’t mean to. but it’s true. they already fed me with a tube earlier.”

“they took that out over five hours ago. and i doubt it was very filling.”

“you’d be surprised.”

harry bit his lip and frowned. “louis, please. just try. you deserve to be healthy.”

“i _am._ ”

 _“don’t bullshit me, tomlinson.”_ harry said sternly, but without raising his voice. “i found you on the floor. i didn’t want to guilt trip you and it’s still not my intention, but let me tell you: it was probably one of the most frightening things i’d ever witnessed. you try seeing the person you love the most looking lifeless on shitty bathroom tile covered in old piss.”

“you keep throwing that word around, but you don’t really kn-“

“you’re not letting me! how am i to get to know you when-“

“it’s been a month, harry. and i know you told the hospital that you were my boyfriend, but you’re not. so i have no obligation to tell you anything.”

harry felt his heart rupture at this, and emotions start burning his eyes. “don’t you think… don’t you think we had something special? don’t you feel like we just _clicked?_ was it really just me?”

“haz, i’m just worried—no, i know for a fact—that you only think that because you don’t know how _tainted_ i really am. do yourself a favor, mate, and leave me be.”

“please, let me love you. you said you’d give me a chance.”

louis sobered up at the boy’s broken expression. harry was crying again, bottom lip quivering so much that louis wondered if it was actually still connected to his face. “sorry. i was too harsh. i know you’re just trying to help me. and i’m grateful. i don’t deserve you.”

“you do, you deserve everything.”

“r-right.”

“will you please try to eat? if you’re still trying to learn how to do it for yourself, in the meantime, please just do it for me. i-i’ll even go grab something from the cafeteria. we can eat together,” harry said, digging around for his wallet, “sit tight. don’t try to hide any food, not that you really can… but i wouldn’t be surprised, considering everything,” he said dryly as he jogged out of the room. “don’t move. i’ll be back in seconds, i swear.”

and just as he promised, harry was truly back in what felt like a matter of seconds, holding a sandwich wrapped in saran wrap. he sat down, unwrapping it, gesturing to louis’ tray with his eyebrows. “it’s only going to get worse, the colder it gets, you know.”

louis nodded, speechlessly, picking up his spoon, blanching as he put the first bite of oatmeal in his mouth. it was flavorless, soggy mush. it felt like liquid concrete in his mouth and suddenly he felt like throwing up all over again. but somehow, he was much hungrier than he thought we was, because before he realized it, there was already another spoonful of the concrete down his throat. it was like he was in a trance—his body was so desperate for sustenance that it momentarily ignored all the neural pathways in his brain telling him to starve. harry looked at the ocean boy, astounded, not expecting it to have gone this well despite it being what he’d wanted in the first place.

but after his tray was empty and louis had grounded himself again, he realized what he had done. all the calories sloshing inside of him, the oatmeal, the substance that was too thick to be chocolate milk, the grapes, everything just building up and up and up and it was all just too much.

he started sobbing, heart racing again, as harry rushed to his side. “oh, baby. you’re doing great. you’re doing great. you’re doing great,” he repeated, as if it were a mantra. “i love you. please don’t cry, love. it’ll be okay. this is what you need.”

despite all the calming words, louis’ tears and breathing only sped up, and the concrete in his stomach was too much. it all came back out—warm and sour all over the white sheets, brown from the dark liquid, chunks from the oatmeal. it was disgusting.

he looked at harry, wide-eyed and mortified, already raw esophagus sweltering from the acid. “pl-please harry. just leave. press the call button and go home. go home and get changed, shower, take care of your own needs. leave. please.” he was shaking so hard that the younger boy could do nothing but concede. “i’ll give my whole heart up, for you to hold. so just leave me be. i’ll be fine.”

it was ironic, how even in these times, covered in dark vomit, louis was still quoting literature. it was something that harry loved about him, but at the same time, it was frustrating. because this wasn’t beautiful or novel-worthy or romantic. it was foul suffering that he’d wished his ocean boy didn’t have to go through.

nurses rushed in, hurried to get him changed out of the soiled sheets and gown, ushering harry out quietly, yet firmly. so there was really no other choice but to make his way home, calling a cab, only then realizing how disheveled he must have looked to the driver.

maybe this is what it meant to fly and fall.


	21. you are the force that crushes my chest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you're the air i breathe, the water that fills my lungs when i die, the force the crushes my chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of eating disorders and eating disorder behavior
> 
> i don't know how much i like this chapter, honestly. it's very dialogue-heavy but i feel like it's just a necessary bridge between two parts. i have to remind myself that not every chapter has to be as profound as the last.  
> also what the fuck are these formatting errors; whenever i start a paragraph with 'dr.' it turns into a '1.' like please haha  
> also en dashes and em dashes are so annoying, i wish the english language made more sense. 
> 
> enjoy, and stay safe. x

calling the whole situation mortifying would be an understatement.

while it was true that harry’s seen him at his worst even before this instance, it wasn’t something he could imagine himself ever getting used to allowing the boy to witness.

vomit wasn’t foreign to louis; there were more nights than he could count that he spent bent over into his cold, unforgiving toilet at home, in attempt to pry out the remainder of whatever lied inside of him. he wished that he could reach his entire fist down his throat and claw out his organs one by one, until he was reduced to nothing.

it was what had caused the seizure in the first place, the doctors told him. some sort of electrolyte imbalance, mixed badly with fatigue and malnutrition. but he hadn’t binged and purged frequently enough for it to be diagnosed as bulimia, so he was just an anorexic that was a little more dysfunctional than others. he hated that. the diagnosis itself was beautiful, though; the name of the illness slipping off the tongue so easily. a trophy for his accomplishments.

the nurses dressed him again after they’d disinfected the room and changed the sheets. it was a wonder, he thought, how unbothered they looked while doing so, accustomed to dealing with all kinds of bodily fluid. some time had passed between when harry had left and he was guided back into bed; by the time everything had settled down, another tray was brought into his room with a clear bag of crackers. incredible, how often normal people actually ate. he’d forgotten how _abnormal_ his diet had been compared to what was recommended, because it was all he knew.

louis played with the plastic bag, deep in thought. what if harry had been so revolted by him that he’s not planning on coming back? what if they’d decided that he was hopeless? or even worse, what if they found out he was faking it all, and had nothing wrong with him in the first place?

there were days louis would wonder what exactly it was that stopped him from eating. he’d wanted to, so badly—his body was screaming for food, but he could never pull it off. he thought that, if gods really did exist, they were telling him that this is what he deserved. which he knew, it just hurt coming from someone else.

the door slid open once again, and for a second louis was scared that the nurse had returned to bring him yet _more_ food, despite the fact that he hadn’t touched the crackers. they were animal crackers, shaped vaguely like blobs with what were supposed to be legs, made for children. and it really did make louis feel like a child.

but harry was here again, and he didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. disappointed that he would have to continue feigning energy, despite having none, disappointed that harry had stayed even though he didn’t deserve it, disappointed that he would have to face this beautiful boy again despite being such a vile creature.

“lou…” harry breathed, stepping closer, reaching his hand out to stroke louis’ hair, “how are you feeling?”

“just dandy, thanks for asking,” louis attempted to sound brusque, but instead could not fight this soft smile on his face that made harry want to crush him in an embrace.

“yeah? i brought you some things,” the green-eyed boy said, holding up a bulging duffel bag. “i brought you some books i thought you’d like, a notebook and pens, some blankets, headphones, and uh… i- sorry if this is jumping the gun, but uh, i, i brought my pillow for you. figured it might help you sleep better? i don’t know. i wish we could cuddle like we always did but the bed’s so crowded, and i _want_ to stay every night with you so it’s like, you know, normal, and i know nights are tough, but like, we don’t know how long this is going to stay the status quo, but you mean everything to me, i would give up anything for y-“

“christ, harry. calm down,” louis laughed fondly at the boy’s long, hardly coherent string of words. “thank you for bringing these things for me. your scent does help me sleep,” he paused. “i’m honestly surprised you came back here after what’d happened. thought that when you left, it would be the last i’d see of you.”

“when i- lou, i didn’t leave because i wanted to, love. i’m not sure if you’re talking about the throwing up part or the crying part or whatever, but i wouldn’t leave you for anything so minor. it’s like you’ve forgotten how many times i’ve already seen you like that.”

louis winced at this statement—if he had the choice, harry wouldn’t see any of it, after all.

as if he could read the ocean boy’s mind, harry continued. “i know what you’re going to say. ‘you shouldn’t have to, i’m disgusting,’ or whatever untrue bull that you keep trying to convince me of. i don’t care. i’ll always come back for you.”

louis rolled his eyes. that _was_ what he was thinking, but he’d first die than to admit that. “oh, shut up, styles. i wasn’t going to say that. what books did you bring? shit, did you bring my uni stuff?”

“you should take a break from that. focus on recovery, lou.”

“if i have nothing to do all day, i’ll go crazy. be a darling and get my coursework next time, okay? i know you still have my keys. it’s on a desk to the left of where you enter the apartment.”

“whatever. i’ll speak with your doctor about it. if she clears it, then i’ll bring it. if not, then you’ll just have to figure something out.”

coincidentally, there came a knock at the door followed by a tall, thin man in a lab coat whom louis thought resembled a rabbit. “hello,” he said, voice all nasally yet deep, “nice to meet you, louis. i’m dr. demarest and i’d just like to speak with you about a few things. you can continue your snack,” he gestured at the tray, “but i’ll just be asking some simple questions.”

“should i stay?” harry asked tactfully.

dr. demarest glanced at louis—who immediately tensed—before smiling feelingly back up at harry. the exchanged look was only for a split second, and had harry been a less observant person, he wouldn’t have caught it. “sorry, you can wait outside of the room. there are just certain topics i’d like to speak with louis privately about.”

harry nodded, stepping out. he was slightly disappointed that the older boy had not trusted him enough to be able to talk freely about his problems in front of harry, but if it meant that he would be honest with professionals that were trying to help him, there was nothing more important. anything for louis to recover quickly and painlessly. though he knew there was no such thing.

louis still hadn’t touched his crackers, but dr. demarest hadn’t said anything about it. “so, louis. tell me about yourself. why do you think you’re here today?”

“erm, i- because… because i passed out on the floor, and harry and zayn found me?” louis swallowed nervously, trying to rid his throat of the lump that seemed to be choking him again, but it wouldn’t budge.

“what made you pass out, as you put it; while others would say that you had a seizure?”

“shouldn’t you know these things, like from my records or something?” he said through clenched teeth, uncomfortable with how bluntly it had been stated.

“of course. but it’s all from an outsiders’ perspective. i’d like to come to understand how _you_ see things. now, tell me again. why do you think you’re here?” the doctor said, calmly, despite the weight of his words.

“i guess people think i don’t eat enough.”

“do you think you eat enough?”

“i might have taken it too far that one day, but it’s not usually a problem.”

dr. demarest blinked, typing notes on his laptop. “if it had you seizing on the floor, then the problem has been going on for quite the substantial period of time, no?”

“it was the first time that it’d happened,” louis mumbled vaguely.

“do you not think you have a problem?”

“it’s not something that’s too much to deal with myself.”

“are you having issues with finishing your snack?” he said pointedly, nodding at the crackers still untouched on a blue tray laying on louis’ lap.

“i’m still nauseous after this morning.”

“what would a normal day of eating look like to you, before you came here?”

the blue-eyed boy pursed his lips and exhaled a tired breath. “i’d eat breakfast, then lunch, then dinner, like most would,” he said.

“what would these meals consist of?”

“normal things, you know.”

“no, louis. i don’t know—normal is different for everyone.”

“i’m tired. can we speak another time? i literally just vomited everywhere and i think i just need sleep. and harry. i don’t want to keep him waiting for too long.”

the doctor sighed, adding more notes before closing his laptop. “i understand. but i will be back, maybe this afternoon, to try again. treatment only works if you’re compliant, mr. tomlinson.”

 _that’s nice and all, but there’s nothing i need to be treated for_ , he thought. “i get that. i’m just too exhausted to have this conversation right now.”

dr. demarest stood, sliding the door open with his laptop in hand, exchanging another glance with harry, who’d given him a questioning look, only to be returned with a blank stare. after he was gone, the younger boy plopped down in a seat beside louis. “so, how’s it going? were you able to talk to him at all?”

louis’ eyes flitted away, and with just that harry could tell that it had not gone ideally. “i was just tired. i didn’t have much to say. he was asking me things like why i thought i was here and stuff.”

harry hummed, running his fingers through the other boy’s hair as he leaned in. “yeah? and what did you say?”

louis giggled at the touch, closing his eyes as harry’s fingers found their way to his cheeks and nose. “i don’t think you’re supposed to ask that kind of thing, haz.”

“oh. sorry if i overstepped some bounds. i was just curious. you don’t have to tell me anything.”

“i was teasing. i said it was being i’d passed out that day.”

“is that all?”

“that’s how he responded too. you guys are too concerned about me. i think i’m fine.” louis said, gingerly.

“lou, you-“

“what books did you bring for me, hazza?” he interrupted, not wanting to continue with the conversation. “things have been getting quite slow around here.”

harry wanted to press on, but he didn’t. it was jarring, to say the least, that the ocean boy was so firmly under the impression that there was nothing wrong with him. “i, um, i brought a few. kazuo ishiguro’s _pale view of hills._ i got it from the library because i thought you would like it, so i read it, and decided to buy my own copy. and a few others from my apartment… salinger’s _nine stories_ , upton sinclair’s _the jungle_ , and well, i know you like shakespeare, but other than the tempest, i wasn’t sure what else you liked or what you have and haven’t read, but i brought _othello._ i mean, i assumed that you read most of shakespeare’s stuff.”

“thank you, haz. i’ve read othello, but it’s always worth a reread. and i’m excited to read that ishiguro book, because you said it reminded you of me. curious as to what that looks like. ” the boys smiled warmly at each other, silent for a few seconds. “i hope it’s not some twisted, sadistic story.”

“nah, the content isn’t really what made me think of you. i just read the premise and thought, ‘hm, this is something lou would like.’ you’re into books with pretty words that bring you somewhere beautiful, even if it’s sad.”

“you know me, harold,” louis chuckled. “that’s why we read, after all.”

“i don’t read to escape from reality. i read to see reality from a different light.”

“does seeing it from a different light change the fact that it’s so ugly?”

“it’s not ugly, lou, not all of it, at least. everything has its good and bad things. you just haven’t seen the good.”

“what’s there to see?” he responded sadly. “and if there really was good, why’s it so dead-set on running so far away from me?”

“lou, nothing is running from you. not when you’re so beautiful. you’re the one running. sure, there are things that were just unlucky, but you always allow one bad experience to define your entire being.”

“d.h. lawrence once wrote-“

“babe, i’m being serious.”

“i am too.” the ocean boy sighed. “luck is vulgar. who wants what luck would bring? i don’t.”

“there are beautiful things in this world, you know.”

“then there must be a reason why i haven’t been shown that.”

“god is cruel.”

“no. i meant it’s- actually, nevermind. thank you, for bringing me the books, that is.”

“what were you going to say?”

“nothing.”

harry closed his eyes again, trying to imagine himself somewhere else—anywhere—but here. somewhere warm and green and soft, with louis by his side. it was hard to breathe, especially since the nurses had disinfected the room after louis vomited. his lungs were itching and he really just wanted out. “’t’s not your fault, love. i know that’s what you were going to say. whatever it is that’s happened to you wasn’t your fault.”

“what would you know?”

“i don’t want to argue with you again. lou, i’m not stupid. i can’t help but assume things about you, especially when you refuse to tell me anything. and i’m saying this now: whatever happened to you was not your fault.”

they were both so, so tired. it was like something had suddenly come over them, a comforting darkness. “thanks.” he said, holding harry’s pillow that he’d brought to his chest before burying his face in the scent.

and they allowed the silence to join them, as if it were an old friend who’d been lost about at sea, simply basking in what had been and what was to be.


	22. we all have souls of different ages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tell me i'm a bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// eating disorder talk , anxiety
> 
> i hope you enjoy this! it took me a long ass time to write, ngl. gonna ignore the fact that i fell asleep while doing it. thank you goldentattookiss on ao3 for being lovely as always. 
> 
> -

the rest of the morning was spent reading—louis began _a pale view of hills_ while harry read _the beautiful and the damned_. he’d always owned the book with the intention to read it, but never actually got around to it. life moved too fast and other things would always declare themselves of more importance.

actually, despite his love for literature, harry hadn’t read seriously before meeting louis in months. he’d wanted to focus on his classes, practicing the guitar, and writing music. he gave up reading in his free time to spend hours staring at a blank page, willing words to write themselves as time passed. but as if the fairies responsible for creativity were against him, he found that verses flowed out of him like the blood that pumped through his veins after he met louis. even though he had been spending less time trying to force it out of himself, it all came naturally as soon as he closed his eyes and drowned in the _blueblueblue_.

zayn arrived shortly after the next tray was brought in for louis’ lunch, which was a cuban sandwich with another plastic bag with potato chips and a cup of dense brown liquid, just like the one that was brought to him that morning.

“how are you feeling?” he asked softly as he walked in. harry had already texted him that louis was awake. “you had us worried sick.”

“sorry. i didn’t mean for that to happen when we were hanging out.”

“of course not. that’s not what i meant—it’s not your fault. happens, mate. just want you to be safe and healthy, is all.”

“thanks, z. but i’m fine.”

“all evidence says otherwise, but i’ll just leave it at that.”

they fell silent after that, harry still reading in the corner, too lost in f. scott fitzgerald’s words to care about what was going on around him. louis still had not touched his sandwich, tray still laying drearily on his lap. zayn wanted to say something about it, but hadn’t, only able to glance at harry with his eyebrows knit together; a gesture that was wholly ignored.

louis noticed the dark circles that seemed to have settled beneath zayn’s golden eyes, ones that had not been there before, and softened. “thanks again, though. for, you know. bringing me here. coming to see me. caring. the usual.”

“of course. i’m sorry for not having reached out to you more in the past few months. especially when i knew you were having a tough time. god, i’m so glad harry came along. who knows what would’ve happened if you were alone in your apartment with nobody to check on you, and you-“

zayn’s words were interrupted by harry, who had slammed his book shut; the sound resonated in the room, ringing almost emptily on the bare walls of the hospital. “well it didn’t,” he stated coldly, “and no one wants to think about that.”

“s-sorry. i didn’t mean to upset you. that was a rash thing for me to say.”

the younger boy stood up from his chair and set himself at the edge of louis’ bed. he leaned in close to him, feeling the other stiffen at his touch. “eat your food, love. i’m here.”

zayn only watched these moments unfold, not wanting to disturb the two. it was as if they were in their own little universe where nothing outside of them had mattered. a place pure and warm and silken. the moment was cut short, however, by a knock yet again, and dr. demarest had returned to have another dig at trying to get more out of louis.

“oh… um, i think i’ll get going. i’ll come again sometime, lou. i’ve missed you. see you soon,” zayn said, sensing the tension. after he’d walked out of the room, dr. demarest pulled up a chair at the foot of louis’ bed.

“so, as i promised, i’ve come back. i apologize for disrupting your meal, but i’ve been on a tight schedule, and i made sure to come wait between forty-five minutes and a hour after food was distributed before coming to you.”

“that’s, that’s okay,” louis stammered, having forgotten about the exchange from this morning altogether.

“mr. styles, would you-“

“he can stay,” the ocean boy cut in, to both harry and dr. demarest’s surprise. the younger boy squeezed his hand reassuringly, grateful that he was slowly letting him in.

“okay. as long as he doesn’t cause problems, i don’t see why not. let’s start from where we left off from this morning, shall we?” the doctor sighed, opening his laptop, jotting down notes before he continued. “how long, roughly, have you been restricting your food intake?”

louis felt harry hold his breath beside him, suddenly regretting his decision of allowing him to stay. “i… i don’t know. it wasn’t a conscious decision,” he sighed, “it was more of a process than a sudden event.”

more typing. the tap-tap of the keyboard made louis shift in his bed nervously. he didn’t feel like there was so much to record, as he’d only said two sentences, but evidently there was more. he wondered if it was his body language, or the way he spoke, or the meaning of his words. in any case, it confused him but he chose to push the creeping thoughts aside. “i see. have you ever talked to anyone—your family, friends, or significant other—about your worries?”

louis thought for a moment, before deciding which answer would be what the doctor wanted to hear. “yeah, i spoke with my mum about it sometimes. she’s in the hospital and has been quite ill for a while, though. harry and i talk about things like that. i’m not keeping it all bottled up.”

harry looked over, frowning. he opened his mouth as if he was going to say something only to shut it again. instead, he squeezed louis’ cold hand even harder.

“i see. it feels good, no? talking about things like that. helps the mind process things easier when you talk through it. and even if you’re not asking for a solution from other people, simply talking can do a lot,” dr. demarest smiled, not detecting the falsity of louis’ answer. “you said your mother is in the hospital? how has that affected you?”

“well, it’s affected her more than anything, so i don’t really have the right to complain. i have six siblings, though, so it’s been hard on our family. her husband has been great with the kids, though, so i appreciate that.”

“you know that it’s not a crime for you to be affected, right? she is your mother after all; it’s putting a lot of pressure and worry on yourself and the rest of your family,” dr. demarest said as he continued to type away. somehow, the sound of the keyboard made louis want to rip something apart. it was another thing that was hollow in this hollow place. amazing, really, how unsettling everything about this hospital was.

“i get that. my own emotions just aren’t the first thing i’m worried about.”

“it’s okay to take care of yourself.”

louis huffed wearily. “right. is there anything else?”

the doctor typed some more before he continued to speak. “do you feel okay with your own body?”

“what does it matter?”

“self-perception is a big part of the psyche, and is a huge part of most eating disorders.”

louis’ eyes flew to harry’s before refocusing on the cold tile. “i’m okay with it. not a big deal. are we almost done?”

“were there any body-checking rituals that you had, like pinching, feeling, or certain ways of making sure of your body shape in the mirror?”

his mind went right to the several times an hour he’d feel for the bumps of his spine on the back of his neck, count the ribs that stuck out, felt to make sure his hips were still there, checked to see if his wrist was still small enough to be able to wrap his thumb and forefinger around it. “no. nothing like that.”

more typing. the timbre took him back to the time where he and his mother were sat at the fireplace when he was four, and suddenly he-

“i see. did you have any food rules, like chewing a certain number of times, or drinking water with-“

“isn’t that enough?” harry’s voice seemed to boom, but louis could hardly process that it was harry’s and not dr. demarest’s or his own. it sounded so foreign, and harry was _never_ foreign; he was so safe and familiar, caring, everything that louis was not.

“i’m sorry?” dr. demarest said calmly.

“this is enough, no? he’s shaking. he’s tired. he hasn’t even finished his meal. this doesn’t have to be today, right?”

“no… no, i suppose not.” he was typing yet again, before shutting his laptop as louis sat silently, still clutching harry’s hands and holding onto the fragments of what was left of his sanity. “well, we can continue another time. i understand that it’s difficult right now. and remember, the quicker you become stable and reach that minimum weight, the quicker you can get out of here. but i guess reminding you of that isn’t my job.”

harry was now rubbing circles in louis’ back, feeling every ounce of bone inside of him, every ounce of anxiety and uncertainty. when dr. demarest was long out of the room and out of earshot, he started speaking quietly to the ocean boy.

“hey. breathe, please. you’re here with me, you’re safe. that guy was being insensitive. i thought psychiatrists or psychologists or whatever the fuck he was, were supposed to understand people. clearly, he didn’t know when to stop or know his bounds. baby, please. breathe. with me, yeah?”

thank god louis was no longer hooked onto a heart monitor, both of them thought, or the room walls would have been screaming the thoughts that were attacking louis’ being. several minutes later, when he had calmed down, still shaking and sweating, but breathing, he flinched away from the green-eyed boy.

“sorry about that. don’t worry about it. ‘m being melodramatic,” he said thickly, “it’s monday. don’t you have work later today? shouldn’t you go home and rest? you look like you haven’t slept properly in days.”

“because i haven’t, but you’re more important. and i took the week off work. it’s not like i need the money urgently at the moment, anyway.”

“i’m not… nevermind.”

“good thing you decided not to finish that sentence, or i’d make sure to never allow that shitty brain of yours to think ever again.”

“i wish you could do that.”

“no. you’ve always had such a beautiful mind. it would have been a shame. it’s just mean to you sometimes, but maybe we can teach it to stop being such a bitter nihilist soon.”

“being bitter is my entire personality. not a nihilist, though. those people are too much for me, believe it or not.”

“i’m actually surprised. i thought that you were the owner of ‘what’s the point?’”

“just because i’m sad and tired doesn’t mean i think anyone else deserves to feel that way.”

harry bit his bottom lip. “maybe we can work towards helping you believe you deserve better, too?”

“maybe,” he replied, without actually believing it. large leaves fell, some pattering against the window before hitting the ground. they were on the second floor, though louis wished that he was given a room a bit higher, somewhere he could watch he sun rise and set. right now, everything good was covered by a neighboring building, the sky peaking slightly from behind.

“eat your sandwich, love.”

louis swallowed. he knew that his shaking was mostly the result of anxiety, but also just from the lack of food in his system. something he’d grown used to over the past months. despite everything, however, he did pick it up and rip a small piece off. it was messy and mostly bread, but something. he wanted to be careful so that he would keep it down this time, to avoid a repeat of the morning.

he counted every time he chewed. the clock was right above the door, a place he could see. a movement of his jaw every second, for thirty seconds, until the bite was meaningless, tasteless, mush in his mouth. reflexively, he almost grabbed the napkin that had come with the tray and spit out what he had in his mouth, before remembering where he was. so he swallowed begrudgingly.

“i love you, you know that?” harry said, still rubbing the ocean boy’s back.

“i know.” he ripped off another small chunk before putting it in his mouth. it was starting to feel sickening, the stale bread and plastic-like cheese. but he chewed anyway.

“i’m reading another f. scott fitzgerald book, _the beautiful and the damned._ it’s about a love that starts out beautiful and perfect but gradually falls apart just because life gets in the way. it feels different from _the great gatsby,_ since the main character is just so much more pessimistic. i mean, he starts out innocent and naïve like most do, but of course, things change.”

“’here’s to alcohol, the rose-colored lens of life.’”

“of course you’ve read it. you’ve read everything.”

“you know that’s not true. if anything, i think you’re more well-versed in literature than i am.”

“nah. you’re the reason i got back into it.”

“really?” louis asked, taking another bite. somehow, speaking with harry made everything easier. the smell and touch and feel of food was nauseating, but at least he had harry.

“yeah.”

eventually, he finished about a fourth of his sandwich, still refusing to touch the chips and viscous drink. it was safe to assume that it was some sort of supplement, full of calories, so many it would make louis dizzy with anxiety.

at three, when the nurse had come in to give louis another snack, to which he simply pretended do not exist, she sighed disappointedly at the little progress that he made. but what did they expect? for him to go from eating nothing to everything in a single day?

harry went home at around five p.m., finally conceding to louis’ nagging. it’s true; he was exhausted. as soon as he reached his own apartment, he plopped face-first on the bed, which seemed much softer than it ever had, and fell into a deep, deep sleep.

louis’ touch lingered on his fingertips and his voice in his bones. he hoped that he’d see the ocean boy in his dreams—it wasn’t enough that blue seemed to be tattooed behind his eyelids.


	23. and i thought, what a beautiful sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when you stepped into the light,  
> i saw it running down your thighs  
> and i thought, what a beautiful sight
> 
> flatsound - to see you alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of sharp objects , implied past self harm , alcohol use , implied past drug use , eating disorders
> 
> a lot of this chapter is very technical and based off personal experience-- i'm not sure if healthcare is the same over there as it is over here, and i'm sure it's not, so i just tried to the best of my ability. let me know if the ending felt abrupt. sometimes, i feel like i'm moving too fast. i'm not sure how i feel about it, and i'm thinking about taking a day or two off of this. just to figure out where i'm going. 
> 
> thank you for all the kind feedback, it really really makes my day. trust me. also the title is from a song called 'to see you alive' by flatsound. i recommend you check it out. i love his work to a fault. 
> 
> stay safe! remember that you are loved. my dms are open. 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome

four days passed, weather outside getting chillier and days getting shorter. not that it’d mattered to louis, as he spent his days inside reading, feeling like his life revolved around the meals that were distributed to him. it was much easier trying to imagine himself in the shoes of another.

every day looked fundamentally the same, except louis had finally convinced harry to go to his classes, and that he’d be fine alone. whether he liked it or not, there was no way he _wouldn’t_ be fine; nurses were watching his every move, and even if they weren’t, it’s not like he could just stand up and jump out the window. the glass was bulletproof and bolted shut. not to mention louis was only on the second floor.

not much progress had been made with dr. demarest. louis wasn’t able to open up to harry, much less some stranger who was being paid to see him. his pale complexion and contrasting dark features didn’t help the situation.

every morning, louis was woken up at seven o’clock sharp to have his vitals taken. and every morning, the nurses tutted in disappointment at his lack of weight gain. that’s what he assumed it was, anyway, as they forced him to step onto the scale backwards, so he wouldn’t see the luminous red number flashing, screaming at him. he wasn’t able to finish his meals any easier than before, and it proved even harder when harry wasn’t there. he’d come at seven thirty every morning, but had classes throughout noon and could not accompany the older boy for lunch.

he hadn’t remembered food to have tasted this bland. maybe it was simply hospital food, but it all seemed to be the same sterile white as the walls, the sheets, the curtains, the tile floor. it was like he had suddenly been thrusted into a world with no color, other than harry’s green eyes.

louis loved harry’s eyes almost as much as harry loved his, though he didn’t talk about it nearly as much. or at all, really. he felt bad for not appreciating the younger boy more, but thanking him or telling him that he loved him meant that he would be _accepting_ harry’s kindness. which meant that he would be allowing himself into a pitfall of trust and warm feelings and gentleness. a pitfall that he knew would someday end, and he’d land face first on the cold hard ground, bones shattering at contact, and stuck all over again.

he’d try to tell himself that it was okay, that harry was not like jean (pronounced john, but spelled pretentiously, an attribute that louis used to love, but now left a bad taste in his mouth), and that it was okay to allow himself just this. but he’d just be immediately plunged into a world of memories that he thought he’d forgotten and decide that no sort of comfort would ever be worth the potential pain.

not to mention, _he_ wasn’t worth it.

he’d said this before, but harry was everything he was not. all smiles, kindness, sunrises, and pretty valleys. he was scarily intelligent and had this way with words that made louis gravitate to him as if he were the moon and harry the earth. the very idea of someone like that being wasted on someone like himself made him feel so sickeningly selfish.

on day five, louis was brutally reminded that his time at the hospital was limited—for every day that passed after a week, being at the hospital would become more and more expensive. for now, his parents were paying for everything, but he couldn’t ask so much of them. his mother was also sick, and dan could only do so much.

it’s not that he didn’t want to go home—it was quite the opposite. he just didn’t want to have to make a decision on what would happen after. harry wanted him to continue with more specialized treatment, but he obviously had his thoughts on that. it was too much.

when he, harry, and the doctor were discussing this, it was clear that the younger boy hadn’t wanted to push him too far, but there were certainly strong implications shining like neon signs.

“louis, of course, you can stay here for as long as you need, but now that you are, for the most part, medically stable, aside from the fact that there is still some weight to gain before reaching the borderline, it’s important that we think about the next step,” dr. matthers said, on a saturday afternoon, six days having passed after he first arrived. “it’s highly recommended, at your level of severity with your eating disorder, that you do residential care. there are many facilities around here with high success rates. you’d be in good hands.”

harry squeezed his hand. “what do you think, baby?”

“no. i think that’s a bit too much. i’m fine with where i’m at, and i don’t want to have to put a stop to my life for so long.”

“i understand that,” the doctor sighed, running her fingers through her dark, curly hair, “but it’s important to get the care you need so that you don’t get a repeat of what happened last week. however, if you’re really adamant on not doing residential,” she paused, hoping for a response, but when she didn’t get one, she continued. “there are three other choices, ones that we even offer here, in this facility. you could do a partial hospitalization program, which is going to get treatment for eight hours a day, spending two meals and two snacks there, leaving a meal and a snack at home. they offer different sorts of therapy with php, but obviously it’s not as intensive as a residential center could give you. another option is intensive outpatient, which you go in for six hours, three times a week, have two snacks and a meal. it’s easier for students like you to take part in, but also not as high level of care as you likely require. lastly, there is just outpatient, where you come in for therapy one or two times a week, or however many you need, for hour-long sessions. i wouldn’t recommend this for you at all, however. maybe at a later stage in recovery, but certainly not right now.”

harry felt the ocean boy harden, palms a bit sweatier than before. “i really don’t think anything like that would help me. it’s something i can figure out on my own,” he finally squeaked, “i’m over eighteen, so you can’t force me, right?”

“no,” mr. matthers pursed her lips. “no, we can’t. but if we have any reason to believe that you are a danger to yourself, then we have to keep you here.”

“i just don’t think that talking to some shrink is going to help me. if i wanted to, i would have this all figured out already. but i don’t want to, so i don’t. you guys don’t understand. i’m in complete control over my own actions.”

“this is a conversation that you ought to have with dr. demarest,” she said firmly, “because you may be under that impression, but eating disorders, unfortunately, are not that simple.”

“when exactly am i free to go home?”

“well, we technically cannot keep you here after a certain period of time. as soon as you hit the minimum weight, which, mind you, is still underweight, then you are free to be discharged. normally, though, eating disorder patients will move to a different level of care instead of going cold turkey right back to normal.”

“so you’re saying, if i gain a certain amount of weight, i can just leave, and everything will be back to normal?”

“well, yes. but it’s not recommended. if you lose all that weight again and don’t change your habits, you could be put in a much more life-threatening situation due to your already compromised health.”

“right. well, is there anything else you needed?” louis pressed, anxious for her to leave now that he’d gotten his answer.

“i just need to measure the diameter of your upper arm real quick. it’ll tell me how much progress we’ve made in the past week.”

she had the louis slip off the right side of his gown, exposing his bare arm, wrapping the measuring tape around it while frowning. cold air bit at his uncovered skin, and harry shuddered at the sight of the boy’s protruding ribs, peeking under the gown.

when she had left, he slipped back under his sheets with harry watching him accusingly. “i know what you’re thinking, lou. but i’m not letting that happen. you’re just going to try to get out of here and then lose all that weight again.”

“no, i never said i was going to lose weight again. i’m going to be more careful this time around, h. i don’t want to end up back here again.”

“that’s… that’s not the point, lou!” harry strained, raising his voice, “are you really going to be happy with yourself?”

“what’s the point, then? to be happy? you don’t know me, harry. you don’t understand that no matter what happens, no matter how much i try, _i will never, ever be happy._ i don’t care about what you preach about how everyone deserves happiness, because while that may be true for everyone else, i’m already beyond that. don’t try to talk to me like you know what’s best for me, because you don’t.” louis said, yelling back. the nurses standing in the halls were beginning to become concerned for them, speaking to each other in hushed whispers, wondering if they should intervene.

“louis, i just want to help get you through this.”

“please, just stop. there are things you don’t know, that if you did, you wouldn’t even try. it’s impossible.”

“then tell me,” harry said, trying to calm himself down, which proved to be useless. “tell me what it is that you’ve been alluding to all this time without actually going into any detail.”

“fucking stop, harry. i can’t do this right now, and i refuse to argue with you. i just want you to keep in mind that it’s more complicated than you think.”

“what’s wrong with you, then?” harry spat, and _oh, please stop, this is the boy you love so much and you’re going to scare him and ruin everything,_ but he kept going. “you never tell me anything and you’re sat here in a hospital bed expecting me to know exactly what to do. why can’t you see that you’re sick, louis? you. are. sick. tell me, right here and now, what is it keeping you from being happy?” he’d never felt this anger before, coursing through his veins, all hot and relentless, burning everything in its path. but right now, he was shouting at the ocean boy, who was beginning to cower beneath the white sheets.

“leave,” louis finally breathed, hands shaking but resolve hardened, “just go, harry. just leave me the fuck alone and don’t come back. if you’re so fucking quick to give up then maybe i should, too.”

harry’s eyes widened, “lou- lou, no, i- i never said that. i didn’t mean it that way. i’m sorry. pl-please. i’m with you. i’ll be with you to the end, you just have to let me.”

before he could protest any more, the nurses allowed themselves in louis’ room. “sir, i’m afraid you have to leave, or we’re going to call security. we can’t have you distressing our patients like this,” one of them looked at him sympathetically, lowering her voice. “i understand. come back when you’ve calmed down. these kinds of fights aren’t uncommon between mental health patients and their loved ones.”

so the green-eyed boy could do nothing but leave. why did it always turn out like this? why was he always so foolish when it came to louis? he headed back to not his apartment, but louis’, and curled himself up in the sheets that still smelled of the ocean boy, despite him not having been there for a week. the scent was comforting, almost acting as a sedative, taking away all the bad that had happened that day and putting harry to sleep.

in his dreams, he imagined everything horrifying that could have happened to louis, whatever it was that could have made louis the mess he was now. he woke up several times, unsure if it was all real or not, only to find himself twisted between the boy’s sheets, calming down and drifting back off to sleep, only to be met with the same atrocities of the night.

he woke up again at eleven p.m., having slept six hours and unable to fall back asleep. ever since this had all happened, harry’s sleep has been spasmodic, spending all his waking hours worrying about louis, exhausted by the time the tide calmed. he realized that he left _the beautiful and the damned_ at the hospital, and louis had a limited selection of books at his apartment, so all he could do was stand at the balcony to smoke and think. it wasn’t the same as the balcony at his place; overlooking a busy highway still bustling with life even with midnight right around the corner.

he was lost, really. he wasn’t even sure if louis would ever trust him again, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try. no more screaming matches, he told himself, especially not at the hospital. he was supposed to be patient and kind and understanding, but somehow that always flew out the window whenever louis started speaking bad about himself. it was just so excruciatingly painful to listen to the person he loved talk as if he were nothing, when it harry’s eyes, he was everything.

he found leftover vodka at louis’ place, at the bottom of a cupboard that louis didn’t know harry knew existed, full of razors and alcohol and syringes and bandages. the sight made harry imagine the bad nights, before they came into each other’s lives, where louis would spend hours trying to numb himself, only to be met with cruel realities and cold darkness.

the vodka burned on the way down, and he wasn’t sure how old it was, but if there were a physical way to describe love, harry decided that this was it. burning his throat, his eyes, blurring dreams and reality so that the line was no longer distinguishable—as if there were no line in the first place. is this what it felt like to hate yourself? is this, on top of bleeding and being high, how louis escaped his pain?

because it didn’t feel like an escape at all. rather, before passing back out after making his way to the sofa, harry just felt the memories rush back at him at a lightning speed. it was all too ugly and all too dizzying to even articulate, so the green-eyed boy decided that this is what it felt like to be truly alone.


	24. my body doesn't feel like home but you did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or maybe you never were and never will be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// self harm (scratching) , blood , eating disorder , self hatred
> 
> this is prob the last chapter in the hospital arc. it might be bad and rushed and repetitive and stupid but i'm having a rough few days so i'm sorry. maybe i'll revisit it later after everything is out. 
> 
> time passes but memories don't.
> 
> take care of yourselves, you are loved. maybe i'll be taking a break for a day, but also probably not. need something to tire me out at nights haha. but again, maybe they're lower quality. let me know what you think. please. 
> 
> -

louis hated himself for expecting harry to come back. but what was he to do? the boy came back every time in the past. he didn’t want to think that this time was going to be any different.

but expecting something already meant that he’d fallen into the trap that was trust and hope, something that he’d sworn never to be tricked by again. yet, here he was, a blue tray with two mini muffins, mushy canned oranges, and the thick brown liquid in his lap, alone, wishing he wasn’t. it was 8 o’clock and harry wasn’t here. and he’d never been late before; always at louis’ side by 7:30 right on the dot.

it shouldn’t have hurt so badly when the curly-haired boy did not return with wet apologies, but it did. louis knew he fucked up, that he was finally too much for even harry to handle. it’s not that he didn’t see it coming—he did, it was bound to come eventually, but nothing could have prepared him for this so early on.

he couldn’t even touch the muffins. they looked obnoxiously sweet, with dark blue chunks of blueberry. moist and sticky, like they would stick to the roof of his mouth. just thinking about the texture and the calories made his stomach churn.

the blue-eyed boy felt tears threatening to spill over, only for him to blink them away. he didn’t have the right to cry, after he’d driven away the best thing that happened to him with his own foolishness. if only he were better at hiding how fucked up he was, how worthless he was, then maybe harry would still be here. but he couldn’t do that to him; he couldn’t lie to harry, who was the embodiment of everything beautiful in the world, who smelled vaguely of vanilla and old books and hand soap.

so maybe this was for the best, he thought.

harry had left his copy of _the beautiful and the damned_ on louis’ bedside table, and not having anything else to do, deciding that trying to eat would be a waste a time, he began to flip through the book. it was filled with post-it notes that had sloppy, large handwriting scrawled all over them. it was endearing, and he almost smiled, briefly forgetting that harry was to be a figment of the past, and not someone whom he should fond over.

it was one of louis’ favorite books, though of course harry had not known this upon picking it to read while accompanying him in the hospital. a hopeful story with a somber ending, like how real life usually turned out to be. youth makes everything look so sparkling and rosy, only for things to slowly gray as time takes over. eventually, the only thing that would provide that rose-colored lens would be drugs and alcohol. everything that you love will inevitably leave and you will realize that dreams are destined to break. there is no real warmth in this world.

louis’ skin itched to be ripped open mercilessly, desperate to feel something other than this dull ache; to punish himself for hurting harry in the process of losing himself. it was true: he ruined everything good that went his way. what was pure always became tainted.

there were still scabs lining his thighs, all the way from his lower abdomen to nearly the knees, which he picked at like a hungry animal, yearning for the spillage of blood. he didn’t stop until he realized his hands were covered in a thin layer of sticky warmth, satisfied at the work he’d done. the nurses didn’t notice until he grew even more frustrated, hyperventilating as a result of craving something more than just the stubs that could hardly even be called nails. a razor, a pushpin, a letter opener—anything.

they pried louis off of himself, and he tensed at their touch. it suddenly wasn’t nurses grabbing him from behind, and he wasn’t at the hospital—he was back in that dark room and the hands all over him were big and sweaty and ruthless and they wanted more, more, more. more than louis could ever give.

he screamed this bloodcurdling scream, the ghastly noise resonating throughout the room, beating back down at him. he didn’t even recognize his own voice; it was as if someone else was screaming at him, shouting at him, begging for everything to stop.

“let… let go of me! please! i’ll… i’ll be good, so please, please be gentle. please.”

minutes passed, the blue-eyed boy still struggling to be released, having kicked two nurses in the face. he was writhing and yelling for everyone to hear as his scratchy voice rang in the halls. they couldn’t control him no matter how hard they tried—they even took their hands off of him for a few seconds, but he’d only dig his nails even further into his thighs and scratch at his throat, as if he were trying to rip out his vocal chords to stop them from sounding.

eventually, when the staff realized he wouldn’t be calming down anytime soon, and that he would be expelling so much energy to the point of passing out anyway, they decided to administer a sedative as if he were some sort of rabid creature. eventually, his screams weakened and he was lulled into darkness, where he again found himself in that cold, cold room, being touched all over by cold, cold hands.

when louis came to, harry was there, right before him, and for a second he thought he was still dreaming. but when he rubbed his eyes, and the younger boy was still sat beside him with a concerned expression, he realized that this was _real._

“harry? what are you doing here?” louis’ words slurred together sleepily, “what time is it?”

“lou,” the green-eyed boy’s voice was shaking. “oh, lou. i’m sorry. i- i can leave if you want. i know i shouldn’t be here again after everything, but… i can’t just leave you.”

“what time is it?”

“it’s around two in the afternoon. i didn’t come this morning because i had an awful hangover. woke up a bit late, and had class right after. i’m sorry, i-“

“it’s fine, harry. you don’t have to apologize.” louis mumbled weakly, the resolve that he thought he had beginning to crumble. _you shouldn’t be allowing this. you need to leave, to run the opposite way, to drive harry out before harry could leave on his own accord._ but somehow, he was back where he had started, and he hated himself for it. “i… i’m the one who should be sorry.”

“why?”

“because… i’m me. and you’re you. and you are too good for me. i… i know i haven’t told you much but i can’t, i… it’s too shameful to say, you’d hate me, and… it’s just disgusting. i’m disgusting.”

“whatever happened to you might have been disgusting, but you are not disgusting, lou. it’s disgusting that there are people that would hurt you like that, but none of it is your fault.”

“you don’t know that, harry; you don’t know who i am, you don’t know just how _contaminated_ i am, so please… just leave me now. stop wasting your time.”

“aren’t you tired of having this conversation? because i am. i- i don’t know what i have to do or say to convince you that i’m not going anywhere. it feels like i’ve tried everything i can. the rest is up to you, lou.”

they fell silent, only sound in the room was some other patient’s distant sobs, reminiscent of louis’ this morning.

“i’m sorry.” the older boy said tearfully, “i’m sorry. i’m sorry.”

“for?” harry whispered, closing his arms around louis’ frail body. “what are you sorry for, sunflower?”

“not being able to trust you yet.”

“take your time. i’ll be here in the meantime.”

the ocean boy smiled softly, a smile that harry thought could bring world peace if broadcasted to everyone. he was grateful that he had it all for himself. “you said you were hungover?”

“yeah, uh,” harry coughed, “had some vodka. was pretty upset last night.”

“i’m-“

“don’t apologize. it’s not your fault. i was the one that instigated the fight anyway.”

louis hummed, closing his eyes. harry’s hands were warm despite the cold breeze outside, which told louis that he’d been here for a while during the time he was asleep. “thanks, curly.”

“for?”

“staying.”

“you don’t have to thank me for choosing to be around the person i love.”

“you don’t get it, harry. you give me so much, and i can’t give you anything back. you’re going to realize this eventually and grow tired of having to take care of me.”

“you’re strong, lou. maybe you’re having a tough time right now, but what you said back then was essentially right. you don’t need me. but people shouldn’t need each other, no? they should help each other. enhance each other. to become the best that they can be.” harry said, stroking the smaller boy’s hair. it was no longer soft or feathery or any of that—being in the hospital meant minimal washing of hair, especially when louis wasn’t allowed to go to the bathroom without the supervision of nurses. he hated it; he hated being treated like a child.

“i’m sorry for always making you reassure me like this.”

“you’re not making me do anything. i swear, if you apologize one more time i’m going to make you regret it,” harry laughed, only half joking.

“and how exactly would you make me do that, styles?” louis giggled. harry was glad that he was finally getting his usual energy back, but all his words still seemed to be heavy and sad.

“can i kiss you?”

“excuse me?” louis raised his eyebrows incredulously, “did i hear you right?”

“oh, my bad for not being gracious enough with my proposition. may i kiss you, monsieur louis?”

the ocean boy narrowed his eyes at harry before rolling them exasperatedly. “whatever. do what you want.”

“what? you’re actually letting me? are you sure?”

“weren’t you the one that asked? what are you so surprised for?”

“i- i guess i just didn’t expect you to say yes.”

“well, are you going to leave me hanging until i change my mind?”

harry’s lips immediately collided with the ocean boy’s, and he’d tasted exactly like louis expected him to. like coffee drenched in sugar and milk to the point where it could hardly be called coffee, like fresh outside air that he hadn’t breathed since that last day at the park. it was a long kiss; he closed his eyes and imagined them to be somewhere else—somewhere not in the hospital, somewhere where their problems didn’t exist and it was just the two of them. somewhere he was happy and his past was nonexistent and everything was so much easier.

he almost didn’t want to open his eyes when it was over. because when he did, just as he had expected, there was this longing that wasn’t there before. a longing for someplace better than here.

“that… that was nice,” harry breathed, unable to keep a smile from spreading all throughout his face, revealing those dimples that louis loved so much.

“yeah. it was.” he hadn’t kissed anyone in years. even in those dark rooms from his childhood and adolescence, they had never kissed him. it was always fast, painful, and passionless. so this moment had felt like a dream.

“are you lost?”

“a little. but that’s okay, i guess. or maybe it’s not, for now, but it might become okay.”

“it will be.”


	25. when it comes to taking it away from them they will defend it like a lioness her young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> neurotics complain about their illness, but make the most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// purging , mentions of self harm , eating disorder behavior
> 
> hi, i've been having a rough few days. my stomach hurt so bad today, i legit knocked out in the bathroom for twenty minutes before getting up lie down in bed. probably not going to write more tonight-- i usually write half a chapter at night from around one to two or three, then finish it the next morning. i'm probably not going to try tonight, i have too much stuff and i feel too weak so the next upload will likely be tuesday, 10.20.20, in the afternoon. thanks! sorry for the long note. probably irrelevant but i think i have the right to talk about myself since writing this fic is basically an outlet for my feelings anyway. 
> 
> stay safe; my dms are open. twitter is @louflymehome.

louis really was trying his best to get out of that damn place, but the idea of truly gaining weight, gaining fat, scared him more than he thought ever would. so he’d come up with the brilliant idea of funneling water into his system before his daily weigh-in. there was no reliable way to hide weights through his body while he was on the scale, as they made him strip naked aside from a gown, not even underwear allowed. and he didn’t have access to anything small and heavy, anyway.

of course, the hospital was experienced with patients like him, so there were precautions made to prevent that. nothing louis couldn’t work around, though. every morning, he’d wake up at six thirty, half an hour before the nurses came to take his vitals. he asked harry to bring him bottles of water to drink throughout the night because he was too scared to ask for it himself. and harry, being the sweetheart he was, complied.

the blue-eyed boy was careful to not touch the water until right before the weigh-in, in fear that he would need to wee during the night and waste all that weight that could have been added on the scale. he was also careful not to allow the nurses to see the empty water bottles, careful to stow them under his bed until harry came by, whom he asked to dispose of them as a favor.

it took only four days extra after the first week to finally reach the required minimum weight for him to be discharged. it, of course, was still quite low and in the underweight range but high enough for doctors to not have to worry that he’d suffer from acute heart failure just from standing. though, he did feel like his bladder was about to explode when he stepped on the scale and was given the news.

“again, it’s important that you move to another level of treatment specific for eating disorders, and i personally recommend, as your physician, to do a couple of months of residential treatment for the lowest chance of relapse and the highest chance of full recovery. you being of age, however, means that we cannot force you into anything.” dr. matthers said later that afternoon.

harry was there, having decided to skip class after receiving the news of louis’ potential discharge. “what do you think, love? your doctor and i just want the best for you, and getting more specialized treatment might be it.” he whispered, holding the older boy’s hand tightly. it would be a lie if he said he weren’t deathly nervous; after all, even though it was louis’ life, this all affected him as well.

“i think i’m fine. like, if it gets worse, maybe i’ll see someone. but for now, just trust me, yeah? what happened was a one-time deal. i don’t want to be weak and have to see a therapist or anything. i also don’t want to take medication for my brain or whatever. because i’m fine.”

before dr. matthers could get a word in, harry spoke up. “you think speaking to a therapist is weak, lou? did you think any less of me when i told you that i had to see a therapist every week when i was a kid?”

“no, because you needed it. and there’s nothing wrong with that. it’s just, i don’t need that right now. this is something i can figure out on my own.”

“then why did you push yourself so far to the point of seizing in the bathroom? if i didn’t know better, i would have thought that you _want_ to die.” harry retorted, starting to speak much quicker than his usual slow, droning voice. the sound that would lull louis to sleep amidst a bad dream or a panic attack was suddenly callous and chilling.

“harry…” 

“i apologize if i’m interrupting something,” dr. matthers said carefully, “but if mr. tomlinson is truly that against seeing a counselor, i think it’s important to at least see a nutritionist. there are plenty out there that are understanding of eating disorder patients, and very accustomed to dealing with people like you, louis.” she dug around in a file folder the blue-eyed boy hadn’t even noticed she carried around with her. “ah. here’s a business card of a nutritionist that i’m actually close friends with. please, please, please, for your own wellbeing, get in touch with her as soon as possible. she doesn’t work in this facility but i assure you that she as kind as she is good at her job.”

louis took the card apprehensively. it was a navy blue color with white block font with the nutritionist’s name, number, and office address on it. “okay,” he said, wearily, despite not actually having any intention to call. having a nutritionist meant being held accountable for what he ate. and in no way was he ready for that. “i’ll give it some thought.”

“okay, mr. tomlinson. now that everything is taken care of, you’re clear to go after some paperwork. you’ve been making very steady progress, and everyone is proud of you.” she smiled a tight-lipped smile, one that was tired, yet undoubtedly genuine.

“thank you for everything,” louis and harry said in tandem, to which dr. matthers only chuckled at after waving and leaving the room. a nurse followed shortly, before the two boys could say much to each other, with a thick stack of forms for louis to fill out.

in truth, living at the hospital was not cheap, and he felt guilty for asking so much of his mother and dan. they had six other children living at home, two of which were hardly toddlers. not to mention his mother’s own hospital bills. it was so selfish of him to allow himself to succumb to something as stupid as an eating disorder, he thought.

“sun?” harry cooed, snapping the ocean boy out of his little hellhole of dark thoughts. “do you need help with any of that? i think i know most of your basic information by heart, anyway. so i can just fill out the technical stuff and leave the more specific and personal stuff to you?”

“you know all my info after knowing me for a month?” louis chuckled, he always got a kick out of teasing the curly-haired boy. “stalker.”

“heeey,” harry whined, “that’s how devoted i am to you. even though you say i’ll leave you all the time. i’m more likely to murder you and stuff your body for display than to leave you.”

“now _that’s_ creepy,” the older chortled, “you’re getting so specific i’m starting to think that you’re serious!”

“maybe i am, sunflower. you’re just so beautiful that i want to have you all to myself.”

“flattery won’t get you anywhere, styles.” he poked the other boy’s dimple, gently running his finger in circles against harry’s face. “but your stupid, pretty face will.”

“touché, _tommo the tease,_ ” the green-eyed boy giggled.

“oh, shut up, you menace.”

eventually, they wound up finishing the paperwork, gathered their bearings, and were ready to leave. louis was giddy with excitement, having even taken a step out of the hospital building for a week and a half. there wasn’t much stuff to bring back to his place, since harry would always run things back and forth from the hospital and their apartments, aside from a duffel bag that they’d stuffed in the back seat of harry’s car. the pale pink exterior never failed to put a smile on the ocean boy’s face, and harry had never been more glad he decided on that color, despite liam and niall’s protests at the time.

“let’s get going, babe.” he said casually, as louis thought he seemed like some middle-aged white dad driving his son home from football practice. “i bet you’re buzzing to get home.”

“just as much as you are,” the ocean boy giggled fondly, “you’ve practically been living at the hospital too, spending nearly every waking hour with me like some kind of leech.”

“you know it’s because i love you, and you love it because you love me too!”

“i’d never heard someone use the ‘L’ word three times in a sentence before meeting you, hazza. you’re such a sap.”

“but you love me. you love a sap.”

“who said i loved you?” louis narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips to hide a smile.

“you did.”

“pictures or it’s not real.”

“i don’t have pictures, but that day that i left to get grocery, you told me you loved me before i left. and told me to stay safe because you care. and how handsome i looked that day.”

“i did not! you were wearing stained joggers and a white t-shirt! not handsome at all.”

“so you admit to saying that you love me?”

louis rolled his eyes. he did remember that moment, as it made his heart race as the words just slipped naturally out. but he’d rather die than admit that. “keep your eyes on the road, you buffoon. a car crash is not my preferred way to go.”

they continued their banter all the way home, the curly-haired boy glad to see some light shine in louis’ eyes again. maybe things really were okay. maybe they could stay like this forever.

when they finally reached louis’ apartment, it was nearing five in the afternoon, and harry was getting hungry again. “what should we do for dinner, lou?”

he felt the boy tense up instantly, which made him wince internally. of course the problem at hand hadn’t disappeared just because louis was healthy enough to leave the hospital, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have dumb fantasies that everything would be fine, and they could operate like a normal couple. not that they were a couple in the first place. “i’m n- anything is fine.” louis stopped himself before his usual automatic response slipped out, knowing it would have upset harry.

“you sure, love? i’m willing to make anything you want.”

“um, i… then, a- a salad?”

“sure, sunflower. it’s just got to have more than sad leaves. i’m going to add chicken, feta cheese, and croutons. maybe make a side soup since i’m feeling extra hungry and i’m craving tomato soup anyway.”

louis’ stomach flipped out of anxiety at the mention the extra parts never usually allowed himself to eat. the soup, everything extra in a salad that ruined the low-calorie aspect of the salad. “i- okay. that’s fine.”

it’d been too long since he’s punished himself, anyway. the easiest way to do that was to make him hate himself. so he complied.

when they ate, harry looked so proud. it almost made louis regret all that he was planning and change his mind. the look on the curly-haired boy’s face, he thought, was more valuable than any punishment he could ever administer himself. for a second, they were at the dinner table, smiling, talking as if they’d known each other for their entire lives, saying the most pointless yet beautiful things.

but when he felt the food weighing him down, having finished half his meal, the water he had drank between every bite of food swishing inside of him, everything began shaking again; his hands, his vision, his resolve. he had to leave.

“i’m going to take a shower,” the ocean boy said, as carefully and steadily as possible so as not to raise suspicion. “let’s watch a movie tonight, yeah? i haven’t showered properly in so long, and i don’t wanna cuddle up against you while smelling like shit.”

“no problem, button. take your time,” harry cooed softly, not really paying attention. he didn’t catch the unevenness in louis’ words. “i’ll be out here whenever you’re ready.”

louis stumbled into the bathroom without another word, hurriedly grabbing fresh clothes and a towel before locking the door behind him. soon, it would be too late, and it would all be digested. at that point, there would be nothing he could do about it.

he turned on the shower and opened the toilet lid, hoping, praying, willing himself to be quiet just in case harry were to walk by and hear anything. the callouses that had formed on the knuckles of his forefinger and middle finger of his right hand had softened from his time in the hospital. for a second, he felt a twinge of guilt rush through his veins before it quickly disappeared when he remembered how much he’d eaten.

nothing mattered suddenly, not harry, not the hospital, not his doctors, not himself. he found his fingers down his throat everything he’d eaten coming back up. though it was mostly liquid, with the red-orange tomato soup filling the bowl. a scary sight; as if he had just vomited blood. somehow relaxing, though. more than ever, louis felt grounded. this was the feeling that he had so yearned for in the past two weeks spent at the hospital.

when he’d opened the cupboard where he would usually store his razors, they were gone, frustratingly enough. harry must have found them and disposed of them. all that remained was an empty bottle of vodka. everything else was nowhere to be found.

“are you okay in there, lou?” harry called from outside the door.

“yeah,” he rasped, throat still scratchy from the acid. purging things like tomatoes, vinegar, orange juice—it made what was already acidic even more so. “i’m fine, just getting ready for a shower, is all.”

“really? the shower has been running for a while.”

“had to…” louis stumbled for words. “had to trim my pubes!”

harry laughed innocently at the boy, no knowledge of what had really taken place in the bathroom. “alright, love. i’ll be waiting.”

the blue-eyed boy flushed the toilet, contents of his stomach swirling around before finally being replaced with clear, pure water. it was refreshing.

he smiled sickly at his reflection, abruptly made aware of how _bad_ this was. he’d just returned from the hospital, and the first thing he decided to do was shove his fingers down his throat. it was awful.

as long as harry didn’t know, though, and he was more careful than last time, then things would be fine. he just had to be careful. to not go too far or fall too deep. this was the only way he could feel, he decided. it’s like the sigmund freud quote, the one about the lioness.

he couldn’t recall it in his stupor of anxiety and exhaustion, which had suddenly come over him after he stood with no warning, but louis liked freud. his ideas were interesting, despite being a little dark. something that he could probably have a long-wound discussion with harry about.

harry.

he did feel guilty to an extent, knowing that if harry ever found out about this, he would cry and cry and cry, and it would be _louis’_ fault. as long as he didn’t find out, though, it was safe. he was safe.

after exiting the shower and rinsing his mouth with mouthwash, the sour smell and taste were gone, it it was as if this episode hadn’t happened at all. so he just returned to harry’s side, all soft and warm and secure, and they cuddled while watching _grease_.

it was perfect (almost).


	26. a single word sets you free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i hear your voice in my dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of self harm , tools , weight (no numbers) , eating disorder behavior
> 
> hi, maybe i'll start doing chapters every two days or only two days in a row if i'm feeling really good. i feel like it makes the quality better and gives me more time to breathe. 
> 
> thanks! stay safe, and again, comments mean sm to me. i read them all, and appreciate every single one of them. 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

harry wasn’t completely oblivious; he knew that something _had_ to be wrong. he hoped that he was wrong, though. it shouldn’t have been weird that the older boy needed a shower. he did get washed—though the times he was bathed happened few and far between. had harry been in that position, showering in the comfort of his own home would have been the first thing on his agenda upon getting discharged.

no one drinks that much water while eating, though. it felt off—he was just so happy and giddy and smiley. harry couldn’t ignore that. so he pushed all of his worries to the back of his mind. what was more important was that louis was eating. not even a month ago, when harry had made lasagna, louis refused to let a single bite near his mouth. this was progress.

it was progress.

at least, that’s what it felt like. when louis returned from the shower to watch _grease,_ his favorite movie, somehow his voice sounded much more gravelly, as if there his esophagus was made of sandpaper. and his smile stopped reaching his eyes. thinking about the cause of this made harry’s stomach churn. it was much easier to ignore it.

he decided to test the waters a bit more. because maybe, this would prove his hunch wrong. maybe he was just being too paranoid and overprotective. maybe everything was actually fine. “lou, do you want me to make popcorn to eat while watching the movie?”

“nah, i’m good. full from dinner.”

“you only had half of your dinner, though.”

“leave it, love,” louis sighed. “nothing is going to change overnight. but for real. i’m fine. make some popcorn for yourself, though, if there is any in the pantry. but i’m sure you ended up picking some up since you’re asking.”

“alrighty. well if you end up changing your mind, i’m not sharing with you,” harry pouted.

“we both know that’s not true.”

“oh, shut up. you know me too well.”

“can’t help it, after you forced yourself so rudely into my life a month ago.”

“almost two months, mind you,” harry whined. “and you love me, you know it.”

“whatever helps you sleep at night, styles.” they were both smiling adoringly at each other, and harry thought maybe he _could_ forget about everything. about louis’ eating disorder (it was still difficult to call it that—louis himself has yet to admit that his problem was truly a _disorder_ ), about the past two weeks, about whatever had hurt louis in the past, about everything dirty and wrong in this world. if it could be just the two of them, in their own little attic of the universe. at least, that’s what harry liked to imagine it to be. the dusty attic of some old house, one that was filled with boxes and smelled of old books, maybe with a skylight that allowed golden sunshine to leak in, accentuating the softness of louis’ hair and his lips and his cheekbones. cozy and beautiful in its own sense, perfectly reflecting everything that the ocean boy was.

this, harry thought, was truly all that they needed.

fleetingly, nothing else mattered. they watched the movie, stroking each other’s hair as louis buried his head in the younger boy’s chest. he smiled softly at the cuddly boy, wanting to melt from fondness.

“lou?”

“hm?”

“i love you.”

there was a pause as louis’ breath hitched. harry could hear himself swallowing, awaiting the answer. when it never came, he decided to continue.

“i know we’re not even dating. yet. but i just want to let you know; i really do love you. it’s heavy to drop the bomb such a serious setting so early on, but i think it’s true. i really think you’re _it_ for me, lou.”

“i’m… harry, you have to understand-“

“i know. i didn’t say it wanting an answer,” harry pulled the louis closer to him. “i said just to say it, because i really do mean it. i don’t want to push you to agree to anything you’re not ready for. just know that i’m here with open arms whenever you are. same goes for anything you haven’t told me. i’m not going to push it so early on, but of course, things that have happened to you are things that i want know about… someday.”

“someday, harry,” louis said, face still in harry’s chest, so that he could feel warm air every time the smaller boy breathed. “i promise.”

“pinky promise?”

“pinky promise.”

they finished the movie, mood lifting as louis began to sing along to some of the songs, which harry found absolutely adorable. louis knew every line, anticipating everything that happened, every time the characters burst into song. it was like he was a child again, able to enjoy things as they were, with no worry or regret. it was beautiful.

the movie had ended, and they held hands all the way to louis’ bed, which they shared. this wasn’t something that friends did, right? they did everything that boyfriends would do, so harry couldn’t be _that_ far off, right? is this the happiness they deserve?

he just closed his eyes and rested his forehead against louis’ back. the boy still refused to sleep facing him, but the fact that he allowed harry to touch him right away was progress. this was progress.

it was progress until harry had was lulled to sleep with beautiful dreams, where louis and him sauntered around sunflower fields and whispered sweet nothings to each other. it was progress until he was jolted awake by the boy, who had somehow woken harry accidentally while trying to get up out of bed.

harry was fully alert now, hoping that this wasn’t what he thought it was. “where are you going?” he asked sternly, grabbing hold of louis’ wrist before he could so much as leave the room. “why are you awake?”

“i have to wee, harry. you almost gave me a heart attack,” he responded breathily, stunned at how hard harry’s grasp on him was. “let go, haz. you’re hurting me.”

the green-eyed boy loosened his grip, sobering up significantly. “can i come with you?”

“i’m sorry?”

harry cleared his throat. “i said, can i come with you?”

“to the restroom?”

“precisely.”

“go back to sleep, harry. i’m not a child. i can use the restroom on my own, at least.”

“i’m not trying to treat you like a child. i just worry.”

“well you are.”

“right. well… fine. i’ll be here. use the restroom quickly, so i can go back to sleep. can’t sleep without my little loubear by my side.” the younger boy whined, trying to mask his concern with neediness. knowing that harry was waiting, there was no way louis would try to pull anything in the bathroom, right?

wrong.

when louis hadn’t returned after five minutes, which slowly became ten, the anger and frustration began to build up inside of him. he got up with the full intention of ripping apart everything that came between himself and louis; whether it was a door or an ocean or a _goddamn blade._ but he’d remembered the last time he took his anger out on the boy, and immediately recuperated. gently, he slid the door open, and found louis stepping on and off the glass scale in the corner of the room, as if the number would change with every attempt. it hadn’t.

all the frustration and white-hot anger that was in harry, that he’d suppressed for so long, had disappeared. “oh, lou…”

the boy turned around quickly, wide-eyed, as if he hadn’t heard harry walk in. “oh. hi. i- i’m sorry. i just, it took longer than i thought it would. and i um, i thought that you would’ve fallen asleep. sorry. i’ll be right there. i’m sorry for making you get up.”

“no, no, no. that’s not it, babe. my sleep is fine.” his voice cracked, chest feeling like it was about to burst at the idea that louis hated what he had loved so much. “please. you’re so, so, so perfect. don’t do this to yourself. stop torturing yourself, louis.”

“i’m- i’m not really, i’m not-“

“what would you have done, had i really been asleep and not walked in on you like this?”

louis’ voice was quivering and his eyes watering. his fists were clenched so tightly, nails digging into his soft, shaky palms that his knuckles were bone white—as if no skin were there in the first place. “i would was just, i was just taking a piss, hazza. was going to head back to bed in a second.”

“don’t lie to me. i’m dense, but not that dense. what would you have done, lou? spell it out for me. please.”

the small boy seemed even smaller than he was in this moment, shaking so fiercely, as if that were his whole reason for being, harry didn’t even know it was possible to tremble so hard. “i-“ he gurgled, trying to compose himself, proving unsuccessful. “nothing. i would have just…”

“tell me, baby. i won’t be mad.”

the ocean boy’s legs became so unsteady that he couldn’t even hold himself up anymore, though he tried. he tried to lean on the counter before falling completely to his knees with a loud thud that made harry recoil inwardly at the grave noise. “harry, i… i hate what they’ve done to me. i’ve gained so much weight. i hate the person i’ve become. i don’t- _i’m worthle-“_

“never. don’t you fucking dare say that, tomlinson.” he took a deep breath, easing himself into the other boy. _slow and steady. don’t scare him._ “we’ll work through this, yeah? let’s… let’s call the number on the business card in the morning yeah? i can even schedule the appointment for you. just, please. please try to see someone. just because you’re physically healthier than before from all the IVs they’ve stuck in you doesn’t mean you’re _truly_ any better.”

a long pause. it felt like several minutes of silence had passed, but harry wasn’t completely sure. it could have been seconds, or even hours for all he cared. as long as he had louis in his arms. “i…” he felt the boy release a shaky breath. “okay.”

it was only a whisper, just a word, two syllables, but harry had felt every weight lift off of him. “oh, lou. i am so proud of you. this is a big step. we’ll get better, okay? it’ll be alright.”

they stayed pressed together for a few seconds as louis collected himself, trying to avoid getting snot in harry’s shirt, before they decided to return to bed. it felt somehow warmer and softer than before; a place that was previously weighed down by worries and uncertainties now seemed so much lighter, free of impurities. harry held the ocean boy even closer than he ever had.

come morning, the two boys stood over the older’s phone as he tried to gather the courage to dial the number. harry offered to do the job, but louis refused profusely, saying that he was an adult and needed to do this on his own. when harry squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, he looked up and smiled wearily, hardening and pressing on the green “call” icon.

“hello?”

“hi, i’m… i’m looking to set up an appointment?” his words came out as a question, raising in pitch at the end of the phrase. “um, i was referred by someone at the hospital,” he coughed awkwardly.

“yes, hi. when are the best times for you? currently dr. reid has openings most afternoons this weeks, and some mornings.”

“um…” he looked at harry with panicked eyes, to which he received an encouraging nod. “wednesday? wednesday afternoon?”

“sounds great!” the receptionist’s voice was chirpy and had a breezy air about it; so much so that it was beginning to make louis think he was about lose his mind. “how’s four p.m. for you?”

“that works.”

“name?”

“l-louis. louis tomlinson.”

“i’ve got you down! have a good one,” she said, almost artificially, as if she were right out of one of those early 2000’s chick flicks. the clicking noise told him that she had hung up, and he practically melted in harry’s arms.

“you did great, love,” harry said, kissing the ocean boy’s forehead. “you did great. this was a big step, and i know how difficult that was for you. i’m here.”

louis said nothing, only letting out staggered breaths into the younger boy’s chest.

maybe he hadn’t truly wanted to get better, because he wasn’t happy. harry was so proud of him, but he somehow could not bring himself to be excited or pleased with himself. this felt like a step back, if anything. he had already gained a bunch of weight from being at the hospital, and now, he was going to be forced to gain even more weight. why did he agree to this?

“…change.” he whispered, almost inaudibly.

“what was that, sunshine?”

“nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.”

“that’s true. where is that from, again? enlighten me.”

“why do you assume everything i say is from somewhere else?” the ocean boy pouted.

“because everything you say _is_ from somewhere else, boo.”

“fine. it’s from frankenstein. i’m surprised you don’t know it.”

“not my cup of tea, i guess. i’ve read it, but it’s not like i really paid attention to anything that was said,” harry frowned.

“i don’t blame you, honestly. an odd one, despite being a classic.”

“my, my. well aren’t you quite the little scholar.”

“oh, shut up, you love it.”

harry smiled, feeling as if the clouds had finally parted, allowing the sun to shine on the two of them again for the first time in a while. “i do.”


	27. the legend of the kalendar prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> op. 35: ii. lento - andantino

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of eating disorder , self worth issues , allusion to past trauma 
> 
> nothing too intense, doesn't really go into detail. sometimes i wonder if my chapters are far too slow burn and if i should just get to the point. 
> 
> more and more, i find that my writing reflects closer and closer to who i am as a person, in essence (though obviously with certain tweaks) and it's become a really important story to me that almost explains who i am and why i am this way. so, as much as it does to me, i hope it resonates with you. 
> 
> also, i felt the need to share that i was offered a contract with those webnovel people, as i assume many people have. i declined, however, both the non-exclusive contract and the exclusive. i don't feel the need to profit from this work, nor do i wish to edit it so that it becomes an original piece as of right now. maybe i would consider it in the future, but i'm keeping it in terms of larry stylinson for now. i hope that makes sense.
> 
> again, comments make my day. thank you for all the sweet feedback i've gotten and the incredible amount of support i'd never thought i would receive. stay safe! 
> 
> -

they went to the dietician’s office later that week, at the scheduled date and time.

it was a bad day, whether they had that appointment or not. or, maybe it was a good thing that he couldn’t feel. everything was just so, so far away, as if he were a mere outsider looking into someone else’s life documentary.

he knew it would be like this even before he opened his eyes. as soon as he came to, eyes still drilled shut and under warm covers with harry’s arms draped over him, he wanted shake the boy off violently. it was harry; he knew that, but somehow, he recoiled at every _notion_ of being touched, and being held like this was not it this particular morning.

on these days, his thoughts ran like torrents—cold and merciless, rushing through him with an inexorable strength.

they were usually prefaced by happy days, however. ones where he would allow harry to touch him, sometimes even allowing harry to kiss him, to tell him he’s beautiful, and sometimes, he would even come close to _believing it._ it was hard, though. knowing that these days would only be followed up by grey nothings and relentless storms even when the sun was out and when the skies were cloudless.

on these days, his memories were the most vivid and raw and unbearably _real_.

even the smallest things would set him off, like the way a sound resonated in the thin walls of his flat, the lighting of a room, the way harry would reach out to embrace him. it was terrifying—one second he would be in the present moment, laughing (the hardest he could muster), when suddenly a detail a regular person wouldn’t even notice—would bring him back to a place where he couldn’t see or hear anything or anyone else. harry would evaporate like fog; thick, thick fog, so intangible yet choking.

today was one of those days.

to be completely honest, he didn’t know why harry was still here. how was he to explain to someone with no way of understanding that one day, he could be laughing and joking and reciprocating physical affection, and the next day he could be seconds away from a breakdown, wanting to tear himself apart so badly that he couldn’t breathe?

how was he to explain to harry that life is an essence that he exhales with every breath? that he imagines every inhale to be a radical acceptance of his pain, which he no longer thought of as pain, because it’d become such a primal part of him, he accepted it as a piece of his own being?

he wanted, with every fibre of his being, to push harry away, to hurt him, to let cruel words drip off of his lips like he was a wild animal whom had just taken a large bite out of fresh prey, to reduce harry to a ball of nothing, to tell harry that _it will always be like this. that he will never change, that this will never go away._

of course, he didn’t _really_ want to hurt the boy. harry deserved nothing of that sort. if he had a choice, he would manipulate the threads of the universe to make it so that harry could stay naïve forever, and though it pains him to think this way, he wishes that the two of them had never crossed paths in the first place. for harry’s sake.

the sole bright side of these awful days was that he would undergo this feeling of exigence. to pour out his emotions in the form of poetry, of narratives, of essays. he loved writing, whether it was for school or not. so he’d always try to expel the negative feelings from him as ink reached paper. though, it rarely worked completely. so he had other methods, to which harry already voiced his disapproval.

louis was snapped out of his thoughts as the younger boy stirred and tried to slither even closer to him. it left this sour taste in his mouth which grew progressively stronger as he was made to be more and more aware of harry’s hips being pressed into his thigh. maybe it was because he had just fully awoke, but he felt his member harden, instilling yet another wave of nausea inside of him.

_whore._

“loubear?” harry mumbled groggily, words still sticky from sleep. “awake yet?”

“yeah,” the ocean boy sighed, “awake.”

“mmm. appointment today. what time is it?”

he glanced at the cheap clock mounted on the wall. it always ended up slowing down, so every morning, if he wanted to read it accurately, he had to mentally add two hours and fifteen minutes to what the face showed. “only eleven.”

harry tried to get him to turn around so that they were facing each other, and louis tried to fight it until he was simply too tired to, despite having just woke up, so he allowed him body fell limp in the other’s arms. “we can stay here a little longer, then.”

he closed his eyes and willed the moment to pass, to evaporate right before him like virtually everything would, so that maybe, just maybe, these feelings would dissolve as well. if he allowed everything to happen, then it would end sooner. that’s what he had learned throughout the years, at least.

but it hadn’t.

“i- i have to wee, haz. loosen up.” this wasn’t a lie; he’d felt like his bladder was about to explode. he was still hard, to which he scolded himself for, but more than anything, he needed to leave. “hazza. h-harry.”

sensing the edge in the ocean boy’s voice, harry immediately let up. “hurry up before you wet yourself, sugar.” louis cringed at the pet name, wholly uncomfortable with all of its implications. normally, they didn’t bother him, but on these days, it was just another addition on his list of overwhelming things.

as soon as he reached the bathroom, he let go of a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. he cursed himself for being so weak and shaky, praying that harry hadn’t caught onto his anxious demeanor.

washing his face with ice-cold water helped considerably, though there was still a slight tremor about him. subtle enough, though, that it might fly past the younger boy with no trouble, though.

as louis was drying his face and assessing himself in the mirror, the bathroom door clicked open and he was met with the pair of green eyes he remembered being so encapsulated by before, now seemingly glazed with badly-hidden concern. “you okay in there?”

“yeah, why?”

“just… you were taking a bit, you know. wanted to make sure.”

he gathered himself slightly, grounded, though not by much, by _greengreengreen_. “’m fine. thank you for worrying, though.” louis smiled.

“of course, boo. now move over, i’ve got to brush my teeth as well.”

they spent the morning preparing themselves in this intimate silence, where they communicated wordlessly and seamlessly. harry, of course, noticed that there was something a bit off, but figured it was just nerves for the upcoming appointment, so he left it alone.

they decided to take harry’s car on the way over, and though louis insisted that he would be fine going on his own, but the younger boy wouldn’t hear any of it. they were going together, not only for moral support, but to make sure that louis actually _goes_.

he turned on the classical radio, allowing the sound of low strings to reverberate throughout the small vehicle. a warm tone, almost like a syrupy embrace.

“i didn’t know you listened to classical music,” louis said, still trying to get his mind off of things.

“eh, i don’t really listen so much as coexist with it. i’m a music major, after all.”

“but you’re studying contemporary music, no?”

“doesn’t mean i haven’t had to sit through my fair share of theory and history classes. at a certain point, you get so enveloped in the sound of the orchestra it’s hard to completely shut out. i don’t see why one would want to, anyway.”

louis thought back to his record player sitting at home in a closet collecting dust, along with years’ worth of vinyl sitting untouched in a brown paper bag. the memory made him want to curl in on himself, but he resisted. “yeah, i get that.”

as if on cue, the song ended and the car went silent for a second before a violin solo cut through the air like a hot knife through butter. the ocean boy’s breath hitched, so much so that he had to suppress a cough. the familiarity of the piece was like hot water running through his veins.

in front of him suddenly was not the road as harry drove him in the pale pink car; he was suddenly in his bed being serenaded by the sound of a violin solo, vibrato mimicking the shakiness of his breathing. a cold smile, a cold glare. straight, black, slicked-back hair on a man whose entire appearance was like that of a reptile; beady eyes, oddly-shaped tongue and lips, an icy sneer that reminded louis that in the midst of everything, he was nothing.

“lou?” harry attempted, trying his best to not stop everything to focus on his boy—but alas, they were on the road and it would be far too dangerous to do so. “are you okay?”

louis blinked, returning himself back to the present moment. “sorry, what?”

“everything alright?” harry repeated, worry shooting through him again.

“oh- oh, yeah. just nervous.” he said, gathering himself. it’s fine. the violin solo was over. it’s just bassoon and oboe now, soon to be followed by the entrance of the rest of the orchestra. it’s fine.

harry smiled understandingly. “yeah, i get it. i’m here for you, though. always. we’ll get through this.”

louis smiled, despite that not being the real problem. it was sweet that harry was trying, and that’s what mattered, really. “thanks, haz.”

he had never been a particular fan of classical music; though jean was. it just came across too pretentious and serious and faraway.

harry was, though, despite it having been a more acquired taste for him. it was hard _not_ to fall in love with it—the color, the stories, the beauty, the royalty. so when louis seemed to show his knowledge on the subject, it took the younger boy aback.

“you like this piece?” he asked louis as he felt the boy stirring against the harsh notes.

“it’s scheherazade. what’s there to not like?” he hummed, trying to feign ignorance.

“you know it?” harry asked, mildly surprised, “though i probably should have expected as much, coming from you, a guy that knows practically everything.”

“yeah, i guess so.” he was trying his best not to blow up right then and there, to hide his discomfort the best he could. on a normal day, this might have not set him off, but it was not a normal day and even this much was _too much._

harry hummed. “do you know the story?”

“sure. it’s a story of how the king’s wife was unfaithful, so he decided to marry a new virgin every day. he’d killed them all until 1,001 women were dead. scheherazade, an intelligent and beautiful girl, offered to spend a night with him. she told him a story, but stopped as soon as dawn broke, refusing to tell him more until night came again. so he spared her life. she kept telling stories until 1,001 more days passed, and had no more to tell. it was after that the king realized his love for her, and made scheherazade his queen.”

“you really do know everything, lou,” harry pouted, “here i was hoping that i could tell you a story.”

“there’s more versions of the story,” louis chuckled weakly. “sadder ones.”

“i wanted to tell you the story, though.”

“you should have told me that, and i would have pretended not to know it.”

“whatever,” the younger boy laughed, “we’re here, love. let’s go, yeah?”

“yeah.” he hadn’t realized how afraid he truly was until this moment; up until now, he thought it was all the result of the memories, of the morning, the music. but being here, a place where the music ceased, he still couldn’t calm down.

harry spoke for him to the receptionist, saying his name, and he found himself in the waiting room on one of the pale gray faux-leather seats that squeaked with every little movement he made. the walls were blue and painted with sickening white flowers. it smelled far too strongly of cheap vanilla air freshener—even he could tell harry’s lungs were itching at the intensity of the scent. the carpet was a dark gray, and in the corner was a dark stain that made him wonder if it was coffee, food, vomit, or all three. it was _suffocating._

if he was worried about whether this would be a mistake before, he was sure of it, now. this was a mistake.

“are you sure about this, harry?” he whispered, strained. “should i really be here?”

“i believe in you, lou. this is possible. it’ll be worth it in the end.”

the end. what exactly did that constitute? is it even worth getting there? “you are like my scheherazade, harry. slowly pulling me in even when i’m trying my hardest to push everyone away.”

“of course, lou. i don’t care about whether it takes a day or if it takes a thousand and one days, or even more. i’m not giving up on this.”

maybe the music wasn’t tainted completely, after all, he thought. 


	28. when my sanity becomes yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set me on fire and feed my ashes to your dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of vomiting , eating disorder behavior , weight
> 
> this chapter took a horrendously long time. well, not really, i guess. but i don't know how i feel about it. i properly went back to proofread it three times over (something i hadn't done for past chapters, but really should), and i still somehow don't know about it. i hope it makes sense. 
> 
> again, most of this is from personal experience with the american healthcare system, so there will be inconsistencies for how things work across the uk, but i think ed treatment is pretty much the same across the board (shit). 
> 
> i plan to go back and fix everything once all the chapters are out, which may take a few months in all honesty. we're just getting in the thick of things. let me know what you think, boost my ego or something if you want to. 
> 
> thanks, and take care of yourselves. dms are open. 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

no matter how prepared louis thought he was before arriving, it all proved useless when he heard his name called by a velvety voice with a slight russian accent. suddenly, everything went ice cold; the air about the room, the blood in his veins. if he were to run away, now would be the time, he thought. he didn’t really know what to expect, head filled with nothing but scheherazade echoing in his ears and that fake-vanilla scent clouding every crumb of reason.

harry nudged him encouragingly with his knee, wordlessly telling him that it was too late, as if the boy could read his mind. they’ve come too far to turn back, it said. “do you want me to come with you, babe?” he whispered gently.

he gave a questioning look to the source of the female voice; a fit woman with hair so blonde it was almost white. she had an angular face, giving her a foxlike appearance. “it’s totally up to you whether you want your…”

“friend,” louis interjected quickly, so quickly and confidently that harry’s eyebrows knitted together. “my friend.”

“right. it’s completely up to you, whether you want your friend to come with,” she said carefully, tiptoeing around the word in question.

“um,” louis frowned—if harry were to be in the room, maybe he would feel a bit calmer with the help of his familiarity with the boy, but that would also mean he would have to be held accountable for everything he said. “he can accompany me,” he decided when he’d realized that an awkward amount of time had passed, praying that harry wouldn’t interrupt if he had to tell a few white lies about his eating habits or question his answers on the way home. _pathetic,_ he thought, _i’ll be treated like a child again._

“sounds good,” the woman, _dr. reid,_ as louis recalled, said. “follow me, boys.”

he and harry nodded, walking closely behind her through the halls. it turned out that the smell was even stronger past the waiting room, sharper and more relentless. louis could tell that the younger boy was bothered by it, but worked hard to pretend to not be affected.

it was a larger complex than louis had expected—how were the other rooms filled if the main doctor was just one person? they finally reached her office, which was ironically small compared its surroundings. one would think the office of the person running the place would have considerably more space, or at least be proportionate to the size of the building.

the three of them sat down in chairs made of the same leathery plastic as those in the waiting room. the walls were filled with the most cliché quotes possible, complimented by shelves lined with pictures of children with the same platinum blond hair and square features. the smell hadn’t strengthened or weakened from that of the hallway, however, much both boys’ dismay. everything about to room made louis feel sick.

“so, what brings you here today?” she opened her laptop, already typing away. what even was there to record when he hadn’t said anything yet? he was tired of hearing that question, anyway. the first thing that dr. demarest said to him, and now dr. reid, as well? do these people have zero creativity?

“i don’t know,” he spat, sounding harsher than he’d intended. “i guess people think i need to be here.”

“and why do you believe that would be?”

“i was recently in the hospital for a little bit, i guess. malnourished or something like that.”

“malnourishment is serious, you know.” she gave harry a sharp look, sensing his inclination to explain in lieu of the more stubborn blue-eyed boy. “so those who are advising you to seek treatment are perfectly reasonable and just looking out for you.”

“i guess so,” he replied stiffly.

“well, first, before i can advise you, i need to grab a height and weight.” she shifted her gaze to the scale and stadiometer placed strategically in the corner of the room.

“r-right.” louis knew already what to expect, having weighed himself twice in the morning and once before they left the house. nevertheless, he complied. before he could step up on the scale, though, dr. reid stopped him.

“we do something called a ‘blind weight’ here, especially for patients like you. you’re going to face away from the scale, stepping backwards onto it,” she said. “just slide your heels against the scale before stepping on so you don’t trip.”

louis rolled his eyes when she wasn’t looking. this wouldn’t mean anything to him, as he was aware precisely to the third decimal where his weight was at, in kilograms and pounds and stones. newtons, too, if he were just given a pencil and paper.

he begrudgingly went through the motions as harry watched; louis noticed how the boy’s eyes widened when the number processed a few seconds after he stepped on the scale. dr. reid clicked her tongue in disapproval, even more so when she went to take his height.

they sat in silence for several minutes as the russian lady entered everything into her desktop. it was old; fans whirring, spinning in a desperate attempt to cool the cpu. she typed and typed and typed, leaving louis to wonder what exactly there is to type _about_. it was frustrating, really. the longer he was sat in the office the more and more unnatural everything felt—air conditioning set to ungodly temperatures even as the cold end-of-october winds tapped ruthlessly on the windows, the constant humming of the pc fans, as if something was living in there and trying to escape.

finally, after what felt like hours, dr. reid spoke again. “alright. i’ve made you a meal plan to help you gain the amount of weight you need to be healthy. i’ll print it out for you along with some guidelines—it’s not difficult to follow, and everything you need to know is in the packet. for example, your breakfast calls for two servings of protein, two grains, a fruit, a serving of dietary fat, and one of dairy. an example of a protein could be one egg, or an ounce of bacon or sausage. it’s a very loose plan but gives you what you need to get healthy. there are also snacks involved, counted by something called ‘exchanges,’ which are sixty calories each. you need twelve exchanges per day, and i’ve split that up for you into three in the morning, four in the afternoon, and five in the evening. so in total, a day of eating for you constitutes three meals and three snacks.”

louis’ mouth hung open incredulously—this wasn’t what he was expecting at all. just snacks alone surpassed the calorie budget he made for himself.

he suddenly regretted allowing harry to sit in the room with him, because without a doubt, the boy would enforce this meal plan as strictly as possible. more than ever, getting better did not sound as glamorous as everyone had made it out to be. it’s like they were all teaming up against him, cultivating some master plan to make him fat again.

a vile plan that would be, one that would envelop him in self-hatred to the point his body would be covered with a thick layer of soft pudge, to the point where his face would hardly even be visible. they would be laughing at him in the shadows, about how stupid he had been, how foolish he was to believe that he was truly disordered. because only sick people need this kind of treatment, right? and louis was certainly not thin enough to be sick.

the remainder of the appointment consisted of dr. reid giving more careful instructions to the two boys, as louis looked straight ahead, at nothing in particular, with deadpan eyes. he imagined himself to be somewhere else, somewhere safer and warmer and more predictable. harry, however, listened intently to every word, treating the woman like she were a goddess whose wisdom was indispensable.

it was a blur, and he couldn’t tell whether time went much more quickly or slowely when he dissociated. it was like sleeping and being abruptly ripped out of a dream as if it’d never happened, but also like he was sitting there, in wait, as centuries passed around him while he was paralyzed, unable to do a damn thing.

the journey home was even harder, if that was even possible. just walking to the sidewalk with the papers outlining his meal plan in hand felt like dragging his feet through sticky mud; sinking deeper with each step, earth grabbing at his ankles and begging him to become one with it—and he wished that he could. being six feet under sounded so liberating compared to the reality he found himself stuck in now. he yearned for such emancipation.

the drive home was something different. harry attempted at light conversation, completely steering away from the topic at hand, and the older boy only hummed or nodded in acknowledgement. the latter of course, the curly-haired boy couldn’t see with his eyes having to be glued to the road.

it turned out that harry had been waiting to attack for when they’d returned to louis’ flat, the ocean boy learned. the first thing that escaped his lips when they stepped through the door, as if it were some kind of holy release, were about snack and dinner.

“so. it’s half past five. we should start thinking about having dinner and getting a snack in before then.” harry said cautiously, approaching the situation like louis were some kind of dangerous, rabid animal.

“i’m- i, alright,” he complied, knowing the classic _i’m not hungry_ excuse wasn’t going to slip past harry—not now. his stomach made a frightening vibration, one not completely audible to anyone but himself, taunting him. punishing him for even _entertaining_ the idea of allowing himself food.

“three servings of grains, three of protein, a dairy, two fats, and two vegetables. that’s something i could pull off,” harry chuckled. “what do we think about tacos? should be able to do that quite easily. and while you’re waiting, you can grab some crisps?”

“haz, i don’t know about this… i can’t just suddenl-“

“you have to start _somewhere,_ boo. i know you probably weren’t listening, but when you don’t finish a meal or snack you have to drink a bottle of ensure.”

“drink what?”

“remember that thick chocolatey stuff from the hospital? i’m just letting you know now so you don’t say i didn’t warn you later.”

“what if i refuse to drink that shit too?”

“it’s like you don’t even _want_ to get better, boo. just try. please.”

“harry, i- i don’t, it’s not that,” he wrought, “it’s just hard. i don’t think you get it.”

“i get that, love. we have to start somewhere, though.”

“al-alright.”

the two of them made their way to the kitchen, harry’s hand on the small of louis’ back. it was bony, and the younger boy had to fight every urge to continue feeling around; as if there were more secrets hidden beneath his clothes.

he shyly poured a bowl of crisps into a bowl as harry grabbed another large handful, putting half in louis’ bowl and half in his mouth. “out you go, love. you can go and watch or read something while i prep dinner. it’ll be ready in a little.”

“i can help, if you need. i don’t want you feeling like my personal chef or anything.”

“since when were you polite and hospitable? just let me do this one thing for you, loubear.” he joked.

“you already do too much for someone like me,” louis muttered under his breath, just out of earshot of the other boy.

nevertheless, he resigned himself to read. he had to dig through his old shelves for books he hadn’t reread in a while, making a mental note to run to the bookstore or library at some point in the next few days. he’d settled on haruki murakami’s _blind willow, sleeping woman_ , figuring that short stories would better suit him right now. noncommittal and easy to digest.

he flipped to his favorite story, _hunting knife._ it doesn’t really seem to have much of a point, like many of murakami’s stories on the surface-level interpretation, but the way his words weaved their way around each other made something much more special, in louis’ opinion. they dig deep into the most meaningless parts of life, the deepest levels of the subconscious. even without understanding it all, anyone with eyes or ears or neither would fall in love with murakami’s prose.

he heard harry turn off the stove, and realized he hadn’t touched his snack at all. hesitantly, in order to technically not be lying when harry asked if he’d eaten any, he brought a crisp to his lips, feeling the grease line his fingers, coating them with an oily shine. he chewed; once, twice, three times—it was only when he reached forty when he had swallowed. the originally crunchy crisp had dissolved in his mouth, becoming flavorless and soft with the consistency like that of oatmeal. food felt so foreign and cancerous in his mouth, and even worse as it travelled through throat and into his stomach. louis was so conscious of all this of just one crisp; how was he to eat a full meal without going hysterical?

harry brought the tacos out onto the dining table; three on each plate. they were soft-shelled and seemed to be filled to the brim with ground beef and cheese and fajitas—everything that he would have never allowed himself to have before.

the younger boy frowned after seeing the still-full bowl, but sighed and called louis over. “c’mon babe. let’s have dinner. i’m practically starving, and i know you are too. in a much more literal sense.”

so there was nothing he could do but sit down, looking incredulously at the food, all warm and vicious-smelling and screaming at him, but also it felt so much like _home._ this was something harry made after all, thinking about him, envisioning them enjoying the meal together, hoping that someday this would all become easier for louis.

and in truth, being so afraid of food was just so _tiring._ louis felt light-headed all the time. every movement took so much energy he didn’t even feel like he had. and of course, resisting food was horrendous.

just because he hated himself didn’t mean that he hated food. if anything, he’d loved it. ever since he was a mere child, it was something that brought comfort during most stressful of times. he would even fake sick in primary school just to get his mother to make that heavenly chicken soup.

for a second, louis decided to let go. harry was rambling about something, about food and health and how louis needed to take care of himself, but he didn’t hear a single word. the tacos smelled too strong and flooded his mind with too many sensations; so much he couldn’t process anything else. when he took the first bite, though, harry fell noticeably silent, as if astounded by the fact that louis was even _capable_ of eating.

he had, of course, eaten at the hospital, but that felt so profoundly different. it was always to avoid that threat of going back to being tube-fed, or small, meaningless bites that would add up to such a negligible amount of sustenance that it wouldn’t feel like a win at all. but this time, it started off with a large bite, one that filled louis’ mouth and eyes with warmth.

harry was good at cooking, after all, louis thought. he hadn’t believed it up until then, despite niall’s excitement all those weeks ago (which felt like a lifetime ago, now). it was so good, in fact, that louis took a second, and a third, and a fourth, continuing on and on until he finished a taco and a half, momentarily forgetting about calories and weight and numbers.

harry smiled, trying to be nothing but pleased at such a progression, but couldn’t help feel hot anxiety boil inside of him as he’s reminded of the incident the first day at the hospital, when louis and woken up, scared down all the bland gray hospital food, and vomited it all back up all over the white sheets, staining them a brown-gray color. this time will be better, he tried to convince himself. it’s different.

and it was, to an extent. louis hadn’t finished his food, and a look of discomfort spread on his face like mold growing on a wall as soon as he calculated the calories he’d consumed in his head (too much), and harry could tell he was fighting the urge to run to the bathroom and force everything back out again. he took the older boy’s hand, which was so sweaty and cold he almost recoiled, and smiled softly.

“you are doing amazing, boo. i’m here, okay? remember that. i’m here.”

louis couldn’t stop the tears; overwhelmed by everything—the twisting of his stomach as it tried to grow accustomed to food once again, the gentleness of harry’s hand he didn’t deserve, the food that reminded him of everything he wasn’t, the ruthlessness of the air as it grabbed him by the collar and told him that he was disgusting, worthless.

they sat there for a while, wordlessly, as harry continued to work at his own food, still rubbing the ocean boy’s hand as he cried, tears and snot dripping into his food, as if mocking him for his failure.

“it’ll be okay,” harry repeated, as if it were a mantra, sounding like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince louis. “it’ll be okay.”


	29. these foolish things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remind me of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// purging , eating disorder , implied past abuse
> 
> hi, i'm back. this chapter feels weird, let me know if there's too much like non-dialogue and stupid details. also i write weird. i probably use too much past perfect tense (had + inf) or whatever, too many commas, too many long sentences, etc. but whatever man. 
> 
> also i'm surprised some of you are still here because MAN my beginning chapters are so bad and unbeta'd. i need to go back and fix them (they're also really short) sometime but i have no time ahahaha. it's 20:42 which is the latest i've posted a chapter (i usually write at like 2 in the morning and finish during the day) so oops. 
> 
> anyway, thank you for sticking with me all this time, and if you've left a wonderful comment, know that i appreciate you a lot. take care of yourselves! also if you want to be friends with me... don't be shy... ...... ... ... . . seriously......
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome 
> 
> -

days went on like this—despite the original threats of having to drink the calorie-filled supplement drinks with every unfinished meal or snack, harry never actually enforced it. watching louis writhe in discomfort at just barely half a meal already was too heart-wrenching to experience. and in truth, louis was never able to eat more than a bite or two of his snacks; harry would always have to be the one to finish them for the boy to avoid wasting food.

it was also more difficult because harry hadn’t known what louis actually liked, or if he had any preferences for food at all outside of what was driven by his illness. it would be much easier, he thought, if he knew louis before everything went to shit, and maybe even have prevented this all in the first place.

but it wasn’t that easy, and he knew that. there was so much more to the boy that hadn’t been revealed yet. questions and assumptions, of course, drifted through harry’s mind at various magnitudes—from passing thoughts to more persistent ones that he worried he would accidentally utter aloud if he were not careful.

for both of them, it felt like time was not measured in days; but in meals. like every single second not eating would be spent marinating in anxiety in anticipation of the next meal; and every second spent eating would be spent wishing they were anywhere else in the world.

he also wasn’t oblivious to the fact that this kind of radical change, this abrupt attempt at recovery, was taking a huge toll on the ocean boy. unable to stomach it all, harry stopped counting after the amount of times could no longer be housed by both hands, where he’d find the boy in the bathroom, fingers stretching into down seemingly past the larynx, muttering awful things about himself, muttering how _unworthy_ he was.

some nights were so tiring. he’d hear the shower running, straining to cover the sound of louis retching into the moldy toilet (which they still hadn’t gotten around to cleaning), and he’d find himself unable to get up to comfort the boy. in this state of unshakable exhaustion that was present no matter how much he’d slept, he’d just listen to the gagging and sobbing, hating himself for not doing anything about it.

nevertheless, he decided that this was progress. louis was eating, and that’s what mattered. it didn’t matter that the boy now had what seemed like a permanent appearance of red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks, that his breath tasted sour no matter how much louis tried to scrub it out, or that he never allowed harry to wrap his arms around him anymore.

 _maybe,_ they’d both wish, on every dandelion and star and candle and eyelash, _he’d wake up one day and be better, as if nothing had happened at all. as if they’d met under normal circumstances and were a normal happy couple with normal problems._

the guilt, of course, eventually began to eat harry up after just less than a fortnight—nine days before they’d have to go in and see dr. reid again. he’d thought, if he just ignored everything ugly and cacophonous, then maybe the problems fix themselves. maybe louis would get things figured out.

obviously, however, that’s not how anything in this world works.

“lou, please. you have to stop fucking doing this.” he had to keep himself from shouting one night, after the ocean boy emerged red-eyed and wet-faced from the bathroom.

“i’m fine, harry. you know this takes time.”

“don’t- don’t you think it’s not _normal_ to have made this little progress in two weeks? are you even _trying_ to fight the urges?”

this normally would have set louis off, but he was just too drained, too sore to even speak coherently. he couldn’t even look the younger boy in the eye, knowing that if he did, the dam would break and all his feelings would force themselves out at an unmatchable pace, from which harry would surely run from. those green eyes always seemed to have that effect on him, as if they had the ability to bore into his soul with their intensity; seeing through all the lies he’d spun, all the secrets he’d kept.

so instead of responding, or even reacting at all to harry’s sudden outburst, he just walked past him as if he weren’t there and settled into bed. they rarely spent nights apart anymore. harry would still visit his own place at times to pick up clothes or textbooks, but always, without fail, returned to louis’ flat.

“fucking answer me, lou. i’m putting in so much effort for you. i’m giving up _everything_ for you. all i ask of you is to _try._ ”

 _no one asked you to,_ louis thought, but couldn’t quite articulate. he didn’t want another fight. his eyes were heavy, and all he wanted was to be sheathed by sleep; a state in which he’d be unable to screw anything up any more than he already had, and hurt harry or himself. “harry. please, just drop it. i’m tired.”

“when are you not tired, these days?”

“i don’t know.”

“i’m tired, too, lou.” the younger boy deflated, frustration wavering only slightly.

“i’m sorry.”

“then do something about it.” when louis didn’t respond, he continued. “you’re always like this, and you keep saying you’re tired, and you know _exactly why_ you’re tired, but you never do anything about it. it all is just beginning to feel so pointless to put all this effort into making food for you to just throw it all back up before it’s digested. you’re seeing dr. reid again in about a week; you have to pull yourself together, lou.”

“i’m sorry,” he repeated dumbly. “i’ll try harder.”

harry sighed. “i don’t believe you.”

“the offer from before still stands,” louis said, before he really thought it over. almost funnily enough, though, he felt nothing.

“what offer?”

“from that night in the bathroom.”

“there are a lot of nights that we spent in the bathroom.”

“the first night. i told you that there’d be no hard feelings if you were to one day decide that this isn’t what you signed up for.”

“and what do you mean by that?” harry said, voice beginning to quiver. the ocean boy couldn’t tell whether it was from fear, or anger, or sadness, or all three. “tell me, louis. spell it out. for me.”

he shifted uncomfortably at harry’s use of his full name; not lou, not a nickname, not a pet name. maybe this was it. he wondered if the almost-three-months they’ve spent together should be considered a curse or a miracle. he wondered if he’d allowed himself to get too attached, forgetting about the irrevocable outcome of it all, as if he hadn’t learned from before. “i’m saying,” louis took a sharp inhale. “that it’s not too late to decide i’m a lost cause and a waste of your time.”

it didn’t make sense, and he knew it, but harry suddenly, for the first time ever, had this overwhelming urge to strike the boy with the back of his hand. to feel the boy’s bones shatter from the force, to see him crying and groveling in pain. the impulse scared him, so much so that he had to get out of bed and step away from louis, pressing his back into the wall and his fists in his pockets. “the only way you’re wasting my time is when you stick your fingers down your throat, thinking i don’t notice, and pretend everything is fine. i just want for you to get better. you’re fucking sick. you’re sick and you won’t admit to it.”

he felt more naked than ever when louis acted as if he could sense these horrendous urges, inching closer and closer to him, as if daring harry to raise a hand at him. he made himself small, readying himself for the blow. his eyes grew icy before they were hidden by eyelids, by eyelashes with tears clinging onto them. harry felt the boy yelling silently at him, challenging him to do something, anything. _hit me, i deserve this. you know you want to._

harry felt like he was going to be sick as well, smelling the _disease_ on the ocean boy as he imagined how accustomed to being struck louis seemed to be. how he treated being abused like it was something inevitable, inescapable.

“i’m not going to touch you, louis.” he flushed at this statement, having came across much differently than he meant to, knowing that the boy would take it the complete wrong way. “no, that’s- i-“

“i get it! i’m disgusting. you don’t have to say any more.”

“that’s not what i’m saying, and you know that. why don’t you listen for once?”

“it’s what you’re thinking. don’t even try to deny it.”

harry didn’t respond, and the ocean boy felt languid tears run down his cheeks. he could hear them dripping onto the carpet, in large, oppressive _plops,_ saying everything harry couldn’t say; everything louis needed to know.

“i need some space,” he whispered, sprinting from the bedroom and grabbing his keys before slamming the front door shut behind him, leaving harry no time to even react, mouth still hanging open and back still against the depressing gray walls.

he fell to the ground, sliding slowly. the apartment was now completely silent; only the quiet, mocking ticking of the clock on the wall. his legs went soft from the nausea that came as an aftershock from the anger. all he could do was crawl toward the space heater to try and turn it on—he wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or if everything was truly so much colder after louis left. as if louis himself was the younger boy’s own personal source of heat and light despite the emptiness behind his eyes and the permanent chill behind his skin.

the heater was unresponsive. harry flipped the switch on and off and back on again, but there was nothing. it was a 10-year-old model, after all. why did louis still own this junk?

he didn’t know why it bothered him so much; an inconvenience as small as the fucking heater not turning on. the cold was undoubtedly potent, but it was nothing he couldn’t drive off with a few blankets. the space heater didn’t really make much of a difference other than a red glow, providing this placebo sense of safety. nevertheless, it felt like the end of the world in the absence of everything.

it hit him then, that louis was out by himself, without his phone or his wallet or anything warm. he was wearing pajama pants and a crewneck—definitely not enough to hold up against the now-november wind. all the leaves were gone now, and the world seemed to be overcome by dull gray rather than the red or orange or brown that came with autumn. during this quasi-season, everything felt much less meaningful, louis would tell him. as if the world was trying to tell us how easy it would be to disappear.

all the possibilities of the night began flooding harry’s mind, quickening his breath and his pulse. louis could go and drive himself into a wall, or another car. he could drive himself into a lake. he could get himself piss drunk at some shitty bar and fuck some sweaty, overweight, middle-aged man. or even worse, get jumped by some gang.

the most heartbreaking part was imagining the ocean boy sitting at the wheel, trying to drive straight as tears blurred his vision, blaming himself for everything that’d happened, blaming his inadequacy for harry’s anger.

he knew that he had to go find the boy somehow, but it just felt so impossible, and he was so _tired._ realistically, louis could be anywhere right now; as far as his car could bring him. harry now worried that the vehicle would run out of gas, and he’d be stranded somewhere with no phone and no money, unable to call for help.

instead of getting up, however, he just threw himself in bed—in _louis’_ bed—and tried to drift off to sleep. he wasn’t met with sleep, though, plagued by the memories of louis standing in front of him, so vulnerably, trying to feign strength with his eyes when the rest of the boy’s body screamed fear.

he really allowed himself to cry, then, rolling over to inhale louis’ pillow. it was desperately in need of a wash, as the smell of smoke began covering up louis’ own scent. harry wondered, if a time would come where he’d grow to forget how louis smelled, the homeliness that came with it, his soft milky skin and long, gentle fingers. he wondered if this would all end, if this was all a dream, if he would wake up with no recollection of the ocean boy, only this sense that something had been robbed from him, something important.

was it wrong that he almost hoped that to be the case? was it wrong that despite his insurmountable love for the boy, he was so _sick of it all?_

still unable to sleep, he rose and pulled an empty notebook from louis’ desk. the place was still eerily silent, and he could hear each step he took on the worn carpet that was hardly carpet anymore. he sat and began to write, hoping louis wouldn’t mind that he’d taken one of his notebooks to use as his own. maybe, he thought, he could write a melody for this poem later. maybe, if louis was still alive then, he could sing it softly to him when it was all done. maybe, when this all passes, it could serve as a memento of their strength and everything they went through. 

he hoped, as his tears dripped onto the yellowing pages, that the day when they would be truly happy would eventually come, despite the uncertainties of the present.


	30. everything god owes us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i wonder how it feels to be strung up high, looking in god's eyes  
> what he'd say when we tell him about everything going on and everything he owes us  
> i wonder how god feels when he rests knowing that we live at the mercy of his hand  
> i wonder how it would feel for this all to end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of past abuse , implied sexual abuse/non-con/rape , vague suicidal thoughts , mentions of self-harm 
> 
> god, i don't know how much i like this chapter. it took me a long ass time and the poem in it is part of something i wrote, so it's kinda yikes. the density of each paragraph kinda lessens as it goes on, which is weird. like it goes like: ............. .. . . . . . .. . . . . . 
> 
> if that makes any sense at all. i feel like this is a lot of rambling. just PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK I NEED GUIDANCE. 
> 
> i don't know if all these issues are too repeated and getting old or boring but this is jsut how things always functioned for me. i promise after this chapter, it gets smoother and closer to recovery.
> 
> i honestly don't know how to write recovery well-- because i'm not completely there yet. so please bear with me. my writing is shit, god. i'm sorry. like i wonder if i am moving too slow yet too fast or if my plotline just doesn't make sense or if it doesn't feel real or natural or if i go into too much detail about shit that doesn't matter or if this is even emotional as i want it to be or if too much is happening and not enough fluff or if i haven't solidified their relationship so it just feels hollow; i don't know. help
> 
> -

he didn’t really think over where he’d go when he walked out the door; all he knew was that he had to get away before he allowed himself or harry to do something that they’d both regret. he didn’t want to be the source of harry’s tears. he hated that he had already been on so many occasions. the worth of his entire being wouldn’t add up to the worth of a vial of harry’s tears.

so he drove. he went as far as the world would take him, hot tears still burning his eyes. but since no one else was with him, he didn’t have to hide it. being around harry all the time was exhausting in its own way; feigning okay-ness was a different kind of taxing than just simply not being okay.

he’d never really driven to calm down before. when he felt like this, he’d always find himself slouched in the bathroom trying to find a way to breathe again, to claw at himself as if open wounds would circulate air to his lungs. this was far more liberating, knowing that he could simply pull the steering wheel and everything would be over.

it was nearing two in the morning, but there were still cars out and about; more than louis would have expected. the city was still completely bright, as it always was, outshining the stars with its artificial light. other cars passed, and he became increasingly aware of the fact that each and every person has their own life, their own problems. it was dizzying to imagine; he was never a self-centered person who saw the world as something that revolved around himself, but the idea that there are so many minds working, so many people living and struggling as he was; it scared him.

the night’s events played again in his head: harry’s voice, shaking like the leaves that had already fallen outside, his fists, balled up and ready to hurt him with just a single neural impulse, his eyes, watery and greener than ever and exuding this painful hatred. toward louis or his illness or himself, he didn’t know, but it had terrified him.

he was used to those eyes. jean had showed them to him all the time, though a much colder and bluer version. and it would always result in the same metallic taste in his mouth and the same throbbing in his abdomen.

in truth, for just a split second during that argument, he saw jean standing in front of him, with his slicked-back dark hair and snake-like features telling him that he would be better off as old soil. when the memories began permeating every aspect of his consciousness, it had become too much—the very force that drove him out of his own flat.

harry was not jean, not even close. harry was warm and gentle and everything he didn’t deserve, whilst jean was merciless and wintry in the worst way possible; everything he _had_ deserved and everything he still does. comparing the two would be unforgivable.

of course, he didn’t run away from harry intending for it to be permanent. but now that he was looking back, his actions felt all the more despicable, irreversible. he could go home in the morning and harry would be gone. he could go home to a harry he wouldn’t recognize, a harry that would hit him and tell him he was worthless and call him a whore. he hoped that the former would be the vision to manifest, and not the latter, for a variety of reasons.

the largest one was that it would be proof that he really did ruin everything he allowed near him.

oh, how _selfish_ he was for thinking that this was okay. for thinking that he even deserved to be in harry’s presence, to touch him, to speak to him, to look at him, being the scum that he was. he should have warned harry much earlier and more severely, the degree to which he was beyond repair.

he had found himself on a road familiar to him, a place that he would come often when he needed a change of pace. he veered off the highway, turning into a corner of the town many did not know existed at all—an overhang that viewed the a part of the city with all its lights and flaws and smog.

it was beautiful. the air bit his nose and his ears, coaxing goosebumps from under his skin as violent tremors racked his body, but he thoroughly enjoyed it. he enjoyed the sound of the trees behind him as they swayed along with the wind, the smell of nothing but the forces of nature.

this was one of the only places that had an abundant supply of fresh air within a seventy-kilometer radius. he’d discovered it one day after a particularly overwhelming afternoon lecture. the professor was discussing domestic abuse with the class; and he’d felt far too acquainted with the telltale signs splayed on each powerpoint slide. as if they were screaming at him, _this is what you went through._

but putting a label on it had felt so constricting and _wrong._ it’s not abuse if he deserved it, right? it’s not abuse, it’s not violence, it’s not pain, if he thought of it all as something that _belonged_ to him. something he wielded like a set of shining armor, so heavy yet so protective.

jean was happy now, and he wasn’t about to ruin that with a label as vague and unrelenting as _domestic abuse._ maybe he was just an ordinary man whose worst sides were brought out by louis’ unworldly repulsiveness. it was zayn, in the end, who had dragged him away, begging him to report the man for all that he did to him. but he had refused. the bradford boy even tried giving him an ultimatum as a last-ditch effort; saying that if louis did not report jean, then he would stop being friends with him. but it hadn’t worked out. and he didn’t have the heart to just leave the boy alone, so he accepted the rut that louis didn’t want to move from. he’d rather stay, bathing in the awful memories than seek closure.

it was the frustration that tore the two apart, in a way that was similar to what had happened with harry. they hadn’t completely cut each other off, but louis decided that it would be beneficial for the both of them to distance himself a bit, for a while, at least.

that’s what he would do with harry, he’d decided. he’d go back and apologize and act as if everything were normal, but never allow the boy to be as close to him as he had before. he wouldn’t sleep over or cook for him or hold the smaller boy close as they fell asleep to some brainless movie playing in the background. the thought made him feel more lonely than he’d ever had, but it was necessary. for himself and for harry.

he sat at the bench, unmoving except for the shivers that still took over him with every gust of wind. the tears had stopped, but not the feelings or the flashbacks. they were the kind that he hated more than anything else, but was more accustomed to—the type that left him feeling empty, moments playing through his head so foreign as if they hadn’t happened to him, forcing him to watch everything unwind. he’d flinch as if jean were standing there, hand raised at him, but he didn’t actually _feel_ anything. all he could do was sit, fish-eyed, waiting for the memories to pass.

things unfolded in his mind until jean had disappeared and he instead was back in high school, in a gym locker room, where the floors were sticky with who-knows-what, and there were huge boys in rugby uniforms bent over him, and he knew that the quickest way for things to pass was to close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere else as they had unzipped-

he realized that he’d been scratching at his wrists, which had become red and raw and bumpy from the irritation. the birds had come back to life as a sliver of the sun emerged from the horizon. most lights in the city were off at this point, quiet, in the six a.m. sunrise. city-goers tended to rise closer to midday, he realized, when he first moved him from doncaster.

he sighed, suddenly aware of the exhaustion that had come over him in the past four hours. the shakiness was from a mixture of the cold and the lack of food in his body along with the energy he’d expelled from his body working to keep itself warm. he begrudgingly dragged himself to his car, moving with difficulty, as if his bones had been replaced by some kind of konjac jelly, the low calorie type that he’d buy in bulk and funnel down his throat, hoping in vain that it’d make him any less hungry (it hadn’t; all it did was slosh inside of him, making his organs feel nothing like organs at all).

when he looked in the small mirror on his car’s visor, he’d noticed how blue his lips had become, a shade only slightly darker than the color of his eyes. it gave him this gaunt appearance that made him look even sicker than he was. like jack frost, or another one of those creatures from children’s stories. maybe one day, he’ll be peter pan.

the drive back was excruciating. all he could do was recite in his head what he’d say—“hey, sorry for everything that happened, but i’m fine, and i just don’t feel comfortable with our relationship anymore. i’m okay with being regular friends but please don’t try to force your way into my life again.” all he had to do was say those two sentence, and it’d all be over. hopefully, he’d learn from this experience and never make the same mistake of trusting someone like he did harry ever again. maybe once harry stopped looking after him, then god would decide that it was his time, and take him in his sleep or when he’s bent over the same moldy toilet.

before he knew it, he was at his own front door, knowing that harry would be behind it. he knew this, because harry’s car was still parked in the apartment’s parking garage, its pale pink exterior and stupid little trinkets and all. ironically, his own home didn’t feel like home at all.

nevertheless, he found the courage to slide the keys in and turn the door. it was quiet, so quiet that he wondered whether harry was there are all. he couldn’t hear the space heater’s whir that he always heard. it was always a sense of stagnancy in the midst of uncertainty, so it was odd that harry hadn’t turned it on or anything.

he wanted to make a beeline to the bathroom, but instead he walked cautiously into the bedroom, where he found harry sleeping face-down on _his_ side of the bed. he wasn’t sure whether to wake the boy up from his seemingly peaceful slumber, or to just leave a note for harry to find when he woke up. he settled for the latter, deciding that it was a safer option, knowing that harry’s eyes alone were enough to kick down the resolve he’d worked so hard to build up on the drive back.

when he reached his desk, one of the notebooks that he’d been gifted by his mother years back but had never gotten around to using, was splayed open with messy writing scrawled all over it. harry’s handwriting.

he’d never really paid much mind to the boy’s handwriting before, he realized, the way he looped his f’s and his q’s, how his letters seemed to merge together.

_we’re always told that loving is losing  
and thinking is feeling  
while those feelings  
are nowhere to be found_

_you’re still in my heart but you’re not around  
every night i think about you and how profound it is;  
each breath you take you have me burning at the stake  
it chains me to my seat and you’ve chained yourself to me_

his reading was interrupted by the sound of harry clearing his throat. “um, hi,” the younger boy said awkwardly, standing behind him as louis nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise.

“holy- holy shit, harry. you scared me.”

“sorry,” he laughed humorlessly. “we need to talk.”

 _nononono._ this wasn’t how it was supposed to end, he was supposed to be the one to cut harry off, not the other way around. he hadn’t planned for this. but he just exhaled the breath he didn’t know he was holding and nodded. “we do. i was thinking, i was thinking the same thing.”

“you start, then.”

his breathing was already beginning to become shallow, much shallower than the deep gulps of air he needed to do this. he needed so much more to sever off the best thing that’d happened to him. he went over the lines he recited in his head, words jumbling and slurring together into a single incoherent phrase. “wecan’tdothisanymore,ican’tdothisanymore,let’sjustpretendnoneofthiseverhappened.”

“i’m sorry, what?”

his stomach twisted uncomfortably, and he felt like he was going to be sick right on the shitty carpet beneath him. “let’s not do this anymore, haz.”

harry winced at the nickname. “what do you mean?”

“this. everything. we’ve been spending every night together. just- i just think that it’s not going to work out.”

“is that all you have to say?”

“i mean, yeah. yeah, i guess so.”

“well, i was going to say-“

“you were going to say the same thing?”

“god, lou. no. let me talk, love.”

“sorry.” he looked down in shame.

“it’s okay. are you okay? you look like you’re still freezing. and you haven’t gotten any sleep, have you?”

“neither have you, by the looks of it. but i’m fine. what were you going to say?”

“i just wanted to say i’m sorry. for pushing you so hard so early on. i know that you need time and i know that there are other underlying issues we haven’t talked about yet. last night was my fault.”

“is this the end?”

harry’s eyes widened. “no! god, no. i spoke in present tense for a reason. we can still fix this.”

“harry, there’s nothing to fix. this is how it has been since the beginning. this isn’t a normal relationship. you shouldn’t have to deal with me and take care of me like this. i haven’t been giving you anything back. and i think we’ve reached the end of the line; it’s just destined to be over soon, anyway.”

“since when have we _ever_ had a normal relationship? lou, this doesn’t have to fit one of your fucked up perceptions of what a relationship is. we’re not even _in_ a relationship, as much as i would like to be. you said no, and i chose to respect that. i don’t know what you think you do or don’t deserve, but whatever it is, it’s not true. i know this for a fact.”

“you don’t,” he snapped. fuck. this isn’t where he this to go. he wanted to slice harry off like he was some kind of strange appendage that had grown on an inconvenient part of his body: painful, but not impossible.

“i do. you don’t know how much you’re worth.”

“i do.”

“you don’t, louis. fucking look me in the eyes and tell me you’re worthy of happiness.”

“i, i can’t, harry. you know i fucking can’t.”

“that rests my case then. christ, louis. i can’t believe it’s been months and you’re _still_ trying to push me away.”

“i can’t believe it’s been months and you’re still trying to convince yourself that i’m fixable.”

“you are, though. but that’s not the point. i’m not trying to fix you, lou. i’m trying to help you fix yourself.”

“i’m not a fucking project for you to work on for service hours or some shit!”

“that’s, that’s not what i’m saying, lou. i’m saying that i would have left much earlier if i didn’t care about you.”

“you’re going to grow to hate me.”

“try me.”

“fuck, harry. i’m so fucking _tired_.” he didn’t even want to fight the boy anymore. god, why were they so stubborn?

“i know, love. i know.”

the curly-haired boy held louis in his arms now, and he was so _cold._ his small, shaking shoulders ready to cave in at any moment.

“fuck, did you spend the entire night outside? why are you freezing?”

“yeah, i mean. where could i go?”

“you could have come back earlier? or stayed in your fucking car?”

“too stuffy.” louis let out a ragged breath. “why isn’t the space heater on in the bedroom?”

“the real question is, why do you still have that old thing? it wouldn’t turn on when i tried last night.”

“you’ve got to give it a kick every once in a while.”

“just buy a new one. they’re not expensive.” harry laughed, shaking his head at the boy.

“too much work.” he murmured, burying his face in harry’s chest. he’d failed again, he’d given in to the boy’s warmth again.

they stood, pressed together for a while, as heat returned to louis’ body. “are you ever going to tell me what happened, though? why you are the way you are?”

“i don’t know. it might just be something that’ll disappear on its own.”

“it won’t, and you know that.”

“i guess so.”

“where even were you all night?”

“you know. just an overhang where you can view the city in its entirety. it’s peaceful.”

“i was so scared, you know,” the younger boy’s voice was shaking, to louis’ surprise. “i’m still scared. i’m scared that i’ll wake up one day and you’ll be gone, or i’ll find you again like i found you that afternoon, but you’d be cold and lifeless and too far gone.”

“i’m sorry.”

“god, you better be. i almost had a heart attack,” he laughed in attempt to lighten the mood. “but seriously. please, just keep trying. for yourself and for me both.”

“harry-“

“i don’t want to hear it. not if you’re just going to try to push me away again.”

louis fell silent. everything that was going on had branched so far from his plans, he gave up on trying to salvage them.

“do you love me?” the taller asked, tightening his grip on the ocean boy. “because i love you.”

“i… i don’t know.”

“are you willing to try?”

“i don’t know.”

“what do you want us to be?”

“we’re… we’re friends. i don’t know anything past that. i’m scared.”

“i know, love. but you know, i’d take care of you. give it some thought, okay?”

“haven’t i given it enough thought?”

“just a bit more.”

“alright.”


	31. rain upon the blinding dust of earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are the rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. i was better after i had cried, than before-- more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.'"
> 
> -charles dickens, great expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// descriptions of self harm , purging , mentions of suicidal thoughts , eating disorder , mentions of calories 
> 
> hi! let me know if this feels rushed at all. i considered splitting it into two chapters but figured it would flow better as one. it was actually quite easy to write; like i'm suddenly getting over my writer's block.
> 
> there is one spot here when i go into vivid, vivid detail about the depth of a certain self harm wound. it's disgusting but so real and so real for me especially. please proceed with caution. i considered taking it out due it its morbidity but decided against it. 
> 
> thanks for everything, the comments literally make my day-- you have no idea. 
> 
> -

louis did end up trying a little harder, to harry’s relief. days passed and they were rapidly approaching the next check-up with dr. reid.

harry made sure to hold the ocean boy’s hands after meals, as if they were handcuffed, even following him to the bathroom for hours after they’d eaten. louis always protested before eventually giving up. the thought of being treated like a ticking time-bomb made him flush red in shame, but harry was so stubborn after the last incident that there was no point in even trying to slither away.

it was tiring. not purging, pretending to be upbeat and happy for harry’s sake (although the curly-haired boy had told him to be more honest about his emotions, he could never bring himself to—they weren’t really worth paying any mind to anyway).

the only time he really had to himself were nights, when the food in his stomach would be long digested, and any attempt to pry it out would be futile. he’d tried, at first, only to be met with nausea and sticky saliva. harry had also limited his liquid intake at meals; he was only allowed one cup of water per meal and had to clear a certain amount off his plate before drinking it. drinking it all at the end was also not an option, as he would be reminded drink his water periodically.

it was irritating, to say the least. he hated feeling like a child. they’d gotten into more fights which always ended in harry repeating the same thing he’d always said:

“if you don’t want to be treated like this, then take care of yourself so that you don’t have to be told to.”

at first, the older boy would scoff and tell harry that it was none of his business, but he would never hear any of it. he’d run his fingers through that soft, curly hair (which was getting long; reaching his chin) and act as if louis’ voice was nothing but the buzzing of a housefly or the whir of the space heater.

some days were more difficult than others, as everything worldly is destined to be. some days, he couldn’t finish even a quarter of his food knowing that harry wouldn’t allow him to purge. some days, he would rush to the bathroom anyway as harry restrained him and held him in such a bone-crushing embrace, he wouldn’t be surprised if he were to disintegrate with every single hold.

as the temperature decreased and his weight increased, it got easier and easier for the cuts to travel from just his thighs to his arms; especially since he could wear sweaters all the time without seeming suspicious. and ever since the failed hookup that occurred on the first day they’d met, harry would always err on the side of caution when it came to louis’ privacy. he wouldn’t question when the boy would ask him to leave the room so he could change, or when he refused to take off his shirt, or be touched.

eating was still an act that filled louis with shame, but knowing that he could retreat to the bathroom when harry slept alleviated that, even if it was just by a little bit. he could still administer himself the punishment he deserved.

the next appointment had been scheduled for a morning, as both harry and louis had classes in the afternoon. harry went as often as possible to his own, but with no doubts, would skip if it conflicted too much with the ocean boy’s eating schedule. he’d taken off work completely for a couple of months, and as harry always was, because he was so widely loved by the managers at the shop, they understood completely and ordered that he’d take as much time off as he needed. of course, he hadn’t disclosed to them any information regarding what kind of illness louis was struggling with, but they hadn’t asked, which both of them were grateful for.

louis had stayed up the night before, having brought a book into the bathroom to read with him as he watched himself bleed. it was fucked up, he knew, but cathartic, in its own way. like he could freely enter the world of literature wholeheartedly, as if he weren’t in the bathroom knowing that harry would cry if he found out what was happening behind closed doors. he took the extra measure he usually never had to before as a result of living alone, to shove a towel at the bottom of the door, preventing any light from escaping into the hallway. he was revisiting _great expectations,_ a book that he read in high school with great disdain toward the ending. it had this adventurous storyline about a boy who fell in love early on only to be disappointed despite being struck by fortune, finding that the girl he loved had already married to someone else. however, in the end, they meet again at the same place they had first met, implying that the two have a happy ending after the girl’s first husband had passed.

the book was about pip’s misguided hope in everything; the way he misreads situations and makes false assumptions. the way that the story ended, louis thought, made that ideology seem okay, when it, in truth, was not at all. hoping for things only leads to disaster, to disappointment. not beautiful love or a happily-ever-after. that’s just how life operated. when he found out that dickens had originally written it to be a different ending, one which pip and estella did not have their happy ending, he grew curious as to why he hadn’t made it that way—the ending, after all, was the novel’s weakest link.

harry was, in more ways that one, similar to pip, he thought. kind, hardworking, and generous, yet immature, a romanticist, and tended to oversimplify things. of course, it wasn’t as dramatic or detrimental to harry’s character as it was pip’s, but the two still undeniably shared a large number of characteristics.

despite being the more sleep deprived of the two, he was the first to wake up, jolted by another imaginary dark hand that threatened to close into his face. harry was still sleeping soundly beside him, chest rising and falling tandem to the sound of the clock’s hands working. even in his sleep, louis thought, he was beautiful. unlike himself, who always woke up sweaty and sporting bloodshot eyes.

it was still only quarter past six, leaving them almost three hours before the start of the appointment. they’d set their alarm clock for seven thirty, leaving louis an hour before he actually had to get up. so he decided to scroll through his phone for a few minutes; something he did quite rarely, as social media was something that kind of went right over his head.

he realized he’d gotten a text from zayn from about two days ago that he never saw, checking in on him. the gesture made him melt into a smile, knowing that the boy still cared about him despite everything. he shot back a quick response, a thanks, and assuring him that he was buzzing, aside from playful complaints that harry was driving him absolutely mad. which wasn’t a total lie.

there was nothing else worth taking note of, really, so he set his phone down and rolled out of bed. it was still early, and harry hadn’t even stirred beside him. the younger boy has always been a deep sleeper; which made shitty nights that much easier. the time that harry found him was a rare occasion that’d (hopefully) only happen once.

louis sat down at his desk to start writing again. the fog from sleepiness had not completely left him alone yet, but half-coherent thoughts always turned out to be the most meaningful, he found. the once-empty notebook that harry had written in on the night he was out was still laying there, as neither himself or harry had touched it since then. louis felt like it would be an invasion of the boy’s privacy, despite his initial curiosity on the day-of, while it just had not occurred to harry to take it—the notebook itself was louis’, after all.

he’d pondered those words ever since that morning he stumbled upon them: _it chains me to my seat and you’ve chained yourself to me._

were they about him? was he a leech to the curly-haired boy, attaching onto him while slowly sucking life away? is that how harry saw things?

it made him feel sick, as if he’d came across something dirty, something he shouldn’t have seen. but what could he have done? it was on his desk when he was going to write the goodbye letter. not something he could very well ignore.

he wondered if harry knew that he’d seen. and what harry would think. if he brought it up, would he grow angry again, this time lashing out for real, to punish him for looking through his belongings? would he admit that, yes, louis was nothing but a hindrance, a burden to him? that he only stayed because he felt like he no longer had the option to leave? that he was _chained?_

again, he pushed it to the back of his mind, storing the memory at the bottom of a dusty filing cabinet that he’d resolve never to flip through again. he left the notebook where it was found, however, in case harry would ever search for it again. then, at least, he would be able to truthfully state that he never moved or noticed it.

an hour passed, and he could hear harry groaning from the bedroom. it was always like this in the mornings. the boy was never a morning person, acting extra needy and clingy and whiny than he normally was. despite this, though, he would never fail to prepare a nutritious breakfast that followed his meal plan to a t. he hated that part of him.

“haz?” he called, walking back to the bedroom. “you awake?”

“yeah,” the boy responded as louis poked his head through the open doorframe. “tired. need to leave in an hour or so. long drive.”

“want me to drive, then?”

“no way.”

they’d spent their morning quietly, as they always did, helping each other in getting ready like a chef and his assistant; one of them occasionally popping up to hand the other his deodorant, or a shirt, or socks. louis tried to help the best he could in the kitchen, as he always did, but as usual, was ushered away by harry’s motherly shushes.

“it’s okay, lou, just go and enjoy your tea. breakfast will be ready in a sec, we’re just having bagels and stuff today.”

and he was right, the food was indeed on the table only minutes after harry said that, bagels freshly toasted with eggs, bacon, butter, and cheese sandwiched in the middle. a side of sliced peaches, endearingly sliced into the shape of rabbits. harry always paid uncanny attention to the details.

louis especially struggled eating food he had to pick up with his hands. they always left a greasy substance behind, a reminder of the melted fats that seemed to exist in everything. he’d imagine it all congealing inside of him, oily, with the consistency of plumber’s glue. sticky, heavy, and so unbearably dense.

sometimes he’d cut deep enough to hit the layer of fat beneath the dermis—yellowy white, almost having the appearance of baked beans. he’d imagine clawing it out with his fingers, sticking them into the open wound and prying it out as if he were doing an at-home liposuction.

the blood always overran it, though. not to mention it was terrifying and excruciatingly painful. the wound would be gaping open like a baby bird asking for food, clearly in need of stitches, but he’d have to make do with medical tape and lots of pressure. once, it was so deep that he feared he was at risk for an accidental suicide, but luckily, he woke up the next day dizzy from blood loss but otherwise fine. he had no friends at the time, anyway, so if he really had died, his body would remain undiscovered for days. the thought of dying alone was terrifying yet romantic at the same time.

so he only ended up finishing about a fourth of his bagel before he began to feel tugging at the bottom of his stomach, gravitating him to the bathroom instantly. fruits were safe, and beginning to become something he actually quite looked forward to. before, they’d be all he ate because of their low-calorie content, so much so that he grew sick of them. but now, it was genuine pleasure from the taste, especially from berries like cherries or strawberries.

he felt harry’s reassuring hand on his thigh from under the table. though he wasn’t about to eat any more of his bagel, he appreciated the gesture.

“let’s get going, yeah?” he asked, when he saw that harry took the last bite of his own food. “i still need to grab a jacket. it’s getting quite cold outside.”

“agreed,” the younger boy replied, standing up and collecting the plates off the table, including louis’ not-even-half-eaten bagel. “i got this, you can go on and grab a jacket. no trips to the bathroom, though.”

“alright, alright,” he droned, knowing the drill. a sherpa jacket later, the two were out the door.

harry babbled on about something on the way there, some group project he needed to complete for yet another music appreciation course, and how his group members were, in the nicest way possible, lazy arses. louis always loved hearing about the boy’s school life, it being the one largest thing that was separate from his own. this particular day, however, he was quite anxious and had trouble listening. whether or not he gained “sufficient” weight in the eyes of dr. reid determined whether or not his meal plan would be decreased.

harry ended up taking his scale, threatening to throw it out the window if he did not calmly hand it over. so he didn’t know how much he weighed, and it frankly drove him crazy.

he went from weighing himself compulsively—at least twelve times a day, before and after each meal or snack, until harry started following him to the restroom and realized the problem. so now, he had no way of knowing if he had suddenly become morbidly obese overnight. not that he hadn’t already seen himself that way, but being scientifically so would give him more reason to hate his body.

they’d arrived, and the too-strong scent of vanilla had not waned at all since last visit. he wondered if it was something that he’d ever get accustomed to. but that would require more and more visits to build a tolerance, so maybe it wouldn’t be such a good thing after all. it would mean he belonged.

and right now, he anything but belonged. the place was either barren or sprinkled with a pregnant woman, a weightlifter, or an unhealthily skinny teenage girl every once in a while. and he was not pregnant, nor fit, nor particularly thin. so what was he here for, anyway?

“louis tomlinson?” platinum blonde hair emerged from a door which led to the same hallway with the same, suffocating smell as before.

“so, have have things been going?” she asked, after they’d taken his weight and settled down in the chairs. “i see you have not gained as much weight as i would have hoped… are you adhering to the plan?” she asked, frowning. what did she expect, though? for louis, to go from eating close to nothing at all to three thousand calories a day after just three weeks? he could have laughed.

“sorry. it’s just been hard. can’t finish sometimes.”

“have you been drinking the ensure after not finishing your meals?”

“well, no… but it’s just all _so much._ can’t you consider giving me a lighter, more realistic plan?”

“i’m giving you the bare minimum you need to recover. i was looking to lowering it a bit if i saw improvement at today’s visit, but i can’t do that after seeing the lack thereof. i need you to try harder, louis. it’s for your own good.”

 _try harder? why was it that all these people could think of saying was_ try harder _? harry, dr. demarest, dr. matthers, dr. reid. it was always, always, always “try harder” and nothing that actually meant anything to him. nothing of use._ “do i really need to be here? do i really need these meal plans? i think i’m perfectly fine.”

“have you ever considered seeing a psychiatrist or a therapist, maybe, just to see what they can do medication or counseling-wise for your mood and motivation?”

“fuck, no. excuse my language, but no way in hell. talking to people who are paid to listen to my problems isn’t going to help me, i don’t want to be drowning in some mind-numbing drug, thanks. i’ll figure it out on my own. if that’s all, then i’m going to leave.”

he was about to stand up from his chair when he felt harry grab his hand firmly. he’d forgotten that the younger boy had tagged along in the first place, in the midst of his anger. “babe, please. she’s trying to help you. we’re trying to help you. we want to see you better, lou. so just think about it. please.”

“no one asked either of you to do shit!” he strained, tears starting to sting. he had to close his eyes if he didn’t want to seem like some delirious patient. “i’m fine. this was a mistake. i don’t need to be here, this isn’t going to do anything for me.”

“lou, please. please, love. just give it a chance?”

“i’ve _been_ giving them chances. the system. and look where that’s landed me.”

dr. reid interrupted in that thick accent. “we can do our best to help you, but in the end, if the patient doesn’t wish to get better, then there’s nothing we can do. sincerely, louis, from a personal standpoint, not from a nutritionist standpoint, i mean it when i say this. you’re worthy of getting better, and it’s possible. aren’t you tired of living like this?”

“i’m fine!”

“are you really?” she pressed. what fucking right did she have to interfere with what he thought was right or wrong? what right did she have to criticize his decisions?

“loubear, i love you so much. please, just _try._ ”

“it’s always fucking _try, try, try._ can’t you see that trying is exactly what i’m doing? you have no idea what i’m going through.”

“actually,” said dr. reid, “i may not know exactly but i just want to say that i understand. i struggled with an eating disorder for most of my life, and now i’m recovered; my career is even centered around controlling food and it doesn’t bother me at all. ten years ago, i wouldn’t even want to smell food in fear that the calories would absorb through my nose or something. it was awful. but i’m here. so louis, it _is_ possible.”

“i don’t have—“

 _“louis.”_ harry’s voice rang, piercing through the tension like a fish on a spear, all sharp yet soft and concerned. and so, so, so _painful._

he was crying now, and it was the most pathetic he’d ever felt. he was crying in the office in front of some russian lady he didn’t know while harry watched him.

maybe he did have a problem, after all.


	32. time is a gatekeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> of happiness, that is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of self-harm , mentions of purging , other eating disorder behavior , mentions of weight and body checking
> 
> hi! my chapters seem to be getting longer. i hope you guys enjoy. i sometimes question the quality of my writing haha. feel free to give me some constructive criticism. 
> 
> things have been hard, low key, but we'll push through. the best is yet to come. 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

days came as quickly as they passed, and winter was approaching. as the weather got colder, so did louis’ sense of self—he’d always thought that spring or summer was the worst for him in terms of flashbacks and general hopelessness, blooming right along with the flowers, but now he was beginning to question if whether he’d just always been in a constant state of misery.

he hated moping around and feeling bad for himself, but some days, it was just _so hard to hide._ harry would insist that it was okay, that he wasn’t being a pain, but he knew that the younger boy, deep down, dreaded the times he would act like this. all heavy and cloudy and so _difficult._

eating got a little bit easier as time went on, though—he realized how _hungry_ he had constantly been. now that he was allowing food into his body again, it was beginning to grow accustomed to not being empty all the time. it was slowly learning to trust again, like some small, abandoned animal.

there were days he’d feel okay nurturing the animal, able to see it as a separate entity, one that had no correlation with his mind, and therefore was _allowed_ to eat. there were days he’d imagine throwing it against the wall, over and over again to make it cry out, until it eventually fell silent and stopped breathing. there would always be this sick sense of satisfaction that accompanied his self-destruction, one that saw hurting himself as something on a to-do list that he needed to cross off.

of course, even on his good days, he still didn’t deserve food, he told himself. or happiness. or harry, for that matter, who was both of those, in a sense. don’t get used to this. happiness is more fleeting than time could ever imagine itself to be. 

and time was terrifyingly fleeting. he liked to refer to the idea as a gatekeeper. one that locks away all good memories as something reserved only for dreams and death.

the passing months meant that christmas was rolling around the corner; a holiday which he spent his childhood trying to make each year better than the last for his sisters. his mother, of course, was always trying her best to spend as much time at home as possible, but especially with the divorce, it grew harder and harder to maintain financial stability, even with mark entering the picture—meaning louis often had to serve as the babysitter, the one to, he would daresay, “parent” the girls.

he was okay with it, of course. the smiles that would spread and stain their faces for the entire week leading up to christmas always made the preparations worth it. if all that was needed to spark joy was colorful, strung-up lights, toy trains, angel ornaments, and candy canes, then that much he could achieve. anything for lottie, fizzy, daisy, and phoebe to experience a normal childhood.

he’d also always try to do something special for his mother, who had such a busy work schedule that she hardly had any time to breathe. he loved her dearly; she was the only constant in his life, after all. things changed, time passed, people came and left, but his mother had been there with him from the very beginning. so if there was anything to be grateful for, she was it.

it would be a lie, though, if he said that her busy schedule didn’t disappoint him, at times. like when something had come up right on the day of the final performance of the school play before graduation, and she wasn’t anywhere to be found in the audience. he’d hoped that she had gotten lost, or was on her way, or he’d just missed her while scouring the crowd. he’d be lying, if he said that in that moment, he didn’t feel completely alone.

he knew that his mother did in fact care about him, despite everything. she’d cried in his arms about how terrible of a mother she was for missing her son’s final performance. he stroked her hair and told her that it was alright, that it hadn’t mattered, that motherhood looks different for each and every person. which was true. she worked harder than anyone to provide for the family, to keep allow them to continue living comfortably despite the hardships that they’d been through. it meant everything to him.

even so, christmas remained a holiday that he associated with hollowness. nights he’d spend staying up to plan christmas morning, all alone in the dark, wondering if a miracle would happen and santa would come bring _him_ gifts as well. it wasn’t even tangible things he wanted—he had enough of those already. but he longed for those warm feelings that would be described so vividly in books and movies. the ones that made living and breathing seem _worth it._

it was a time for families to come together, after all.

so he shouldn’t have been surprised when harry received a call from his mother and sister, telling him that he had to be home for the holidays. the boy protested, worried about how everything would affect louis’ progress, but it was quickly dismissed by the ocean boy himself when he’d overheard.

“i’ll be fine, harold. you can’t just neglect your family like that. i can’t believe you haven’t updated them on what was going on in the first place,” he said, before wishing he could swallow his words. of course harry hadn’t wanted to talk about it; he was ashamed of what they had. it made sense, louis thought, he was something to be ashamed of. a dirty secret.

they decided that he would spend a few days back at doncaster with his family, while harry went to holmes chapel to see his. that’s how it worked, after all, right? it’s not like they had some sort of pact saying that they had to be together through everything. hell, they weren’t even dating. harry was free to go wherever he liked.

it’s just, as much as he loved his sisters and they loved him, his home back in doncaster didn’t exactly feel like home at all. his mother was in the hospital—she had been for months, and was in and out for years before that. dan was great and all, but he was so busy in trying to care for doris and ernest, who were barely toddlers. louis never made quite the effort he should have made to bond with him, and it was already too late now, he thought. he was closer with mark since he had been more relevant throughout his growing up, but he’d always still feel so disconnected. not that it should ever pose a barrier between children and their parents, but they weren’t related. louis was never able to see mark as a father figure, no matter how hard he’d tried.

harry noticed his sudden shift in mood after he brought up the fact that they’d have to go their separate ways for a little bit, and smiled encouragingly. “c’mon, sunflower. it won’t be that bad. i’m forcing you to facetime me once a day. you won’t be getting rid of me that easily.”

“you seemed to have forgotten that i’ve got an android, styles,” he pouted, sticking his bottom lip out, which harry thought was the _cutest thing to ever exist._

“oh, shush. you know what i meant. we can use literally anything. facebook. whatsapp. instagram. you think i give a shit?”

“no, so long as you can see my pretty face,” he laughed.

“you’ve got that right, love.” harry sighed. “but seriously. you’ve come so far in this past month. don’t let this change anything. not to mention, we’ll be back by new year’s. i expect an extravagant late- christmas present and new year’s party.”

“a party?” the ocean boy blanched, almost choking on his tea.

“i’m kidding, lou! you should have seen the look on your face!” he paused. “i just meant between the two of us, you know… to celebrate the time we’ve spent together? to hope for more years to come?”

“harry, i’ve known you for like three months and you’re treating this like a one-year couple’s anniversary.”

“i- no, that’s not what i meant, but it _can_ be, if you really want for it to be,” he wiggled his eyebrows annoyingly, which louis rolled his eyes at.

“whatever. i get it. we’re back by new years?”

“better be. gemma will have driven me crazy after a week, anyway.”

louis hummed. “the other way around, more like,” he joked.

“oh, shush. you love me, as does everyone else.”

“unfortunately,” the ocean boy responded with a slight smile. the sight made harry want curl up into himself and melt out of fondness.

“so you admit it!” he said, giddily. “you just said you loved me!”

“don’t get used to it, styles,” louis was blushing now, adorably. he was red all the way up the tips of his ears. harry could have died happy right then and there, he thought.

“anyway,” the younger boy coughed, sobering up. “promise me, lou. if something goes wrong, just call me, okay? if it’s for you, i’d drop everything to pick up. everything.”

“don’t say that. you could be doing something important.”

“nope. nothing as important as you.”

“you say that now, but—“

“i don’t want to hear another word from you about this. come on now, let’s finish this movie and head to bed?”

“alright.”

they were watching _beautiful boy_ , a film based off a book whose namesake was the john lennon song. it was about a boy, nic sheff, suffering from a crystal meth addiction. louis had read the memoir a few years back, and hearing that it was getting a movie adaptation was great news. it certainly lived up to his expectations.

harry held his hand the entire time, rubbing soft circles into the back of it with his thumb. they were pressed up against each other on a couch sharing layers upon layers of blankets. if he closed his eyes, maybe he’d be able to photograph this moment in his brain and remember it forever. these calm nights where nothing in particular would happen, just _softsoftsoft._ it almost made him feel like this uphill battle was worth fighting. as long as he got these nights with harry.

it’d end as soon as harry fell asleep and louis’ mind was still racing, though. that’s how it always was. but it was okay. that’s what he’d repeat to himself, anyway.

it’s true that eating had gotten easier. he was gaining weight—he could tell, despite the fact that he no longer had access to a scale. he sometimes considered going to the gym just to weigh himself secretly without harry’s scrutiny, but never got the chance. undoubtedly, though, his body was changing.

he couldn’t stand the feeling of how his thighs were now so close to rubbing together. every time they would accidentally brush against each other as he walked, the compulsion to starve would grow stronger than ever. he didn’t know what it was about having space between his thighs, but it’d somehow became an obsession throughout the journey. it was dumb, he knew. a dumb beauty standard set by teenage girls who idolized heavily photoshopped images of underweight models as if anyone in real life could look that way.

he knew that, so why did the idea of not adhering to such standards still make him feel so physically _sick?_

his eating had gotten better, even though he was still (unsuccessfully) trying to come to terms with the weight he’d gained. the cutting, hadn’t, though. each ounce he imagined himself to put on like pairs upon pairs socks, he would punish himself more and more. he’d limited it to nighttime only, however. that would at least safeguard so that harry would never find out, and he wouldn’t _completely_ destroy himself. if he didn’t put limits on it like he did, he feared that it would engulf him in a high tide. self-care, in its loosest sense, to put it optimistically.

a couple days passed, leaving louis and the curly-headed boy to part ways. harry stole a kiss from him before running off to his car and waving goodbye. it’d felt hot, as if the kiss had ignited some sort of electricity in his veins. when harry was gone, the heat grew much more potent.

the drive between london and doncaster was around three and a half hours; almost four with traffic. he spent that time feeling the harry-shaped void sitting in the passenger seat, realizing that he’d become unacquainted with silence as result of meeting the younger boy and living with him. he was always obnoxiously loud with constant blabbering about mundane things: how his day had been, how school was going, the book he was reading. anything.

at first, it was uncomfortable. now, though, louis couldn’t quite feel at home without it. as much as he hated to admit it, he _missed_ harry. slowly, he was starting to resent himself less for feeling that way. which was alright, he figured.

he reached his hometown at around seven in the evening. greeted by lottie, whom he was much happier to see than he’d thought, they exchanged a hug.

“how are things going, lou? you look good! so much _healthier._ ”

healthy. healthy. healthyhealthyhealthy _healthy._ it’s a good thing, he told himself. people are _supposed_ to look healthy. swallow the urges and move on. “thanks,” he smiled, tight-lipped and strained. “thanks darling. i’m doing proper alright. you?”

“we’ve missed you,” she said, burying her face in her brother’s chest. sour guilt shot through him.

“i’ve missed you guys, too. i’m sorry for not being around more often.”

“it’s alright. we know things have been busy for you with school, and everything.”

“but, still. especially since mum is sick. i need to be more here for you guys.”

“thanks for caring, lou.” she breathed, voice not quite reaching her lips. “it’s true that things have been hard. i’m trying to support everyone the best i can, too.”

“call me if you need anything. ever. i’ll speed all the way here; fuck the cops.”

“don’t say that. but i appreciate it,” she took a deep breath, brightening her tone. “well, you got here at the perfect time. dinner’s ready, so c’mon, stop dilly-dallying.”

“you’re starting to sound like mum,” louis laughed, making a mental note to see her as soon as possible come morning. he missed her. “getting old, huh?”

“oh, shut up. if i’m old, you’re ancient.”

“that i am.” he smiled. the tension was floating away just like a balloon that had been let go by its owner. rising and rising until it shrunk; nowhere to be found.

“louis!” a deep voice boomed through the living room. “it’s great to see you. i also just got off work, so give me a second.” it was dan, with two small children hanging off of him, warm smile and everything. he’d worked to mend the bond between himself and his step-son throughout the years, but to no avail. despite that, he never stopped trying.

dinner was tilapia, breaded and fried by daisy and phoebe, supervised by fizzy. he imagined the pot of oil they had to have used to create the golden-brown shine of the fish. it made him shudder.

nevertheless, he ate. and the girls seemed to be pleased, as usual. “i’m glad that you’re enjoying it,” fizzy chimed, “you seem to be getting thin recently, anyway.”

he laughed stiffly, wincing as he put another large bite in his mouth. “just your imagination, fizz.”

“no, really. are you taking care of yourself? i heard you were in the hospital for a while?”

“yeah,” he said carefully, exchanging looks with dan, who had heard some of the story from his mother. “minor, though. people were making a big deal over nothing.”

“we’re always here for you, lou. like you have been for us.”

“i- i haven’t been, though. not as much as i should be.”

“you always blame yourself,” lottie added gently, “but we’re proper grown up now. you’re allowed to rely on us more. you always took everything on like you had to do it alone.”

he didn’t know why tears suddenly sprang out of nowhere, presence irritating and unwanted, but they had. “thanks, lotts. thanks, fizz.” he said, trying to steady his voice as much as possible. he couldn’t cry, not here. not like this. “means a lot to me.”

“i’m just telling you things as they are.”

the remainder of their meal was spent eating silently, aside from the occasional inside joke between phoebe and daisy that no one else understood. short-lived jealousy would attack as he looked away—he wondered what it was like, being able to have that sort of relationship with someone. growing up with someone.

he thought about rushing to the bathroom right as he was met by the emptiness of the plate in front of him. he hadn’t realized how good phoebe and daisy were at cooking. it tasted like exactly how his mother would cook things back when she had more time, before she fell ill. after the first bite, he’d just kept going, forgetting about all other inhibitions.

harry wasn’t there. he could do it if he really wanted to. he should, since he hadn’t in so long. just because he’d been eating more hadn’t meant that food felt natural in his stomach.

“i’m- i’m going to take a shower real quick, and be right out”

“ernest and doris need to get put to bed. maybe you could just go directly after washing up to rest up in your room until tomorrow? and then we can go see your mother?” dan said.

“yeah, agreed,” he mumbled, making a beeline for the restroom. being there, feeling the cold tile beneath him, it had just felt so _wrong._ harry wasn’t there like he always was, holding his hand, keeping his fingers from sliding into his throat. harry wasn’t there to tell him that it was okay, that it was okay to have eaten, to have nourished himself without apologizing to whatever gods were out there.

he bent over the toilet, ready to do what he was no long accustomed to, when his phone rang. he’d forgotten to leave it in his room, which, of course, was never his room, but a guest room. their family moved out of the house he grew up in long ago, erasing his childhood completely. not that he’d cared. he didn’t want to remember all that, anyway. but it still, selfishly, bothered him that there were no remnants of him in this house, like he didn’t exist to his own family anymore.

“hello?” the younger boy’s voice resounded in his head, making him suddenly aware of the high-pitched ringing that had stuck since he’d woken up that morning.

“h-hi,” he said, trying to sound as stable as possible. so as not to disappoint harry with his gloom. “what’s up?”

“lou…” harry’s voice was cautious, as if he were approaching a wild animal that could attack at any moment. “are you okay?”

“y-yeah.” fuck, louis thought. why did his voice have to shake now of all times? “i’m okay. just finished eating.” _don’tcrydon’tcrydon’tcry._

“oh, lou. oh, babe. please. we’ve come so far. i won’t be mad at you, but it’s one step at a time and getting out of that goddamned bathroom would be a step forward.”

“harry, please, i-“

“louis.”

“alright.”

he returned to the room that still was not his, would never feel like his; and fell face first onto the bed. “i’m proud of you, loubear,” harry whispered.

“don’t be. there’s nothing to be proud of.”

“you are everything to be proud of.”

“sorry.” he whispered, collapsing in on himself.

“for?”

“being.”

_“never.”_

“you’re busy, aren’t you? shouldn’t you be returning to family, haz?”

“they are willing to wait for me. i told them about you,” harry said, softly.

“why?”

“because you’re important. i wouldn’t be where i am right not if it were not for you.”

“yeah, you’d probably be better off. i think everyone that knows me would be better off, had i not come into their lives.” he felt shame bubbling in his stomach and rising past his throat, making it difficult to speak. as if it were the food he failed to throw up just minutes ago. this wasn’t supposed to happen. he wasn’t supposed to be telling harry about these feelings. all that would happen as a result would be his patronization. “before you can say anything, i don’t want to hear it. we both know the truth. i’ve brought nothing but misfortune and unneeded worry to your life.” _stop. you’re making him pity you._

“it’s not unneeded worry. you are not the harbinger of misfortune, lou. you’re everything good that’s happened to me recently. don’t you see that i _like_ being around you? i don’t know what i have to do to convince you of that. but i’ll keep saying it.”

“sorry,” he laughed bitterly. “i just don’t see it.”

“maybe someday?”

“’someday’ is so vague. too many implications.” he sighed. “whatever. how are you, harry?”

“i’m alright. happy to see gemma and mum again. even though gemma is an absolute menace.”

“i’d love to meet them sometime.” the words slipped out before he gave it thought. “sorry. i didn’t mean-“

“they’d love to meet you too, lou. i’ll bring you to holmes chapel sometime. it’s a pretty little town. there are so many places i want to take you. show you parts of me, you know?”

he allowed himself to slip out a smile. “maybe. maybe ‘someday.’”

louis felt his eyes flutter shut, and he couldn’t open them back up again. it had just struck him how tired he was, how emotionally exhausting this entire day had been. harry realized the boy had fallen asleep after minutes of silence and soft, barely audible exhales. it was still only ten o’clock, but he understood how exhausted the ocean boy must’ve been.

he didn’t even realize how widely he was smiling, just thinking about the smaller boy and his soft hair asleep still with his phone in hand. “you look like an absolute buffoon.” gemma teased, smacking the back of his head. “you’re absolutely whipped, aren’t you?”

“oh, shut up,” he blushed, “but yeah. yeah, i guess so.”


	33. breathe dead hippo waking, sleeping, and eating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> keep your precarious grip on existence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// illness , trauma , implied self harm
> 
> a tame chapter imo. disclaimer: in no way am i trying to achieve personal gain through louis' real pain. this is fiction, and nothing written is based off of real life. jay is not going to be a large part of this story at all, but i needed it to explain part of what had forced louis to mature so quickly. 
> 
> i don't know how i feel about this tbh, it's 4:30 and i just finished proofreading. kinda tired, let me know what you think. i'm thinking about combining some of my early chapters, but after everything is done. there is still a ways to go with this fic, though! if you're still here despite my shitty writing, thank you so much. 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

he remembered the first time his mother had one of those dreadful, violent fevers. it was a tuesday morning on his second to last year of high school. normally, she would have already left the house for work by the time he was awake; so when he had to grab a towel from a closet in the master bedroom, and she was still there, breathing audible from even several feet away, he felt a spectrum of emotions course through his veins in just a split second.

it started as a flicker of hope, that maybe, she had decided to take the day off, or drop some shifts to spend more time with him. that, for the first time in months, he wouldn’t come home to a house that felt uninhabited for years. but when she hadn’t responded to his excited rambling as he dug through the bottom of the closet, he sensed something was off. maybe she was just resting, he thought.

it came to his attention, then, his it looked like his mother looked as if she had just finished taking a shower. she was flushed a vibrant red and her hair was sticky with what he realized was sweat after the odor had made its way to his nostrils as he stepped closer.

it scared him. how heavy she was breathing, how violently she was shaking despite being completely engulfed in the covers, how unresponsive she was to his words.

“mum?” he remembered saying, louder than he had intended, so much so that the door of lottie’s room flew open and she padded over.

“is everything okay?” she said, suddenly wide awake.

“mum, she’s… fuck. can you get like, advil and water or something? and then go right to school. i can take care of this.”

“but-“

“you know better than to skip school, lotts,” he said sternly. “now go. make sure the rest of the girls get to school as well. sorry i can’t take you guys, today.”

lottie was back shortly with two white pills and a glass of water. she set them down before grabbing her bag. “she’ll be okay, right? she always is.”

“yeah. don’t worry about it, love.”

his mother’s fever went down slightly by noon, but she was still weak and disoriented.

“fuck. what day is it?” she asked, when she fully came to.

“tuesday. but you’re sick, mum. don’t worry about work.”

“god, i’m going to be so behind tomorrow. i need to at least-“

“there’s no way you’re going in tomorrow, are you crazy? you had a fever of thirty-nine degrees!”

“lou, i have to. things are starting to pick up,” she said wetly. he hated seeing her like this, all feeble, with tremors still racking her entire frame.

“we’ll see how you’re feeling tonight,” he sighed, knowing full well he could not stop his mother from doing what she wanted.

she was significantly more steady by the next day, but they hadn’t figured out the cause for the fever. just a normal flu, he’d figured, heightened by exhaustion. perfectly normal for someone that worked as hard as her, he told himself.

they started to make consistent appearances, each one more ruthless than the last. every time, she’d force herself to try to go to work despite the world feeling like it was spinning far faster than she could keep up with, and the corners of louis’ eyes would droop with helpless concern. he’d finally convinced her to make an appointment after two months of recurring fevers and complete instability. she heavily downplayed her symptoms while making the appointment, pushing it far later than louis would have wanted.

when the day finally came around, the doctor told her that she had been suffering from the fevers as a result of chronic myelogenous leukemia. it was aggravated into an accelerated phase from the overwork she was putting her body through. it wasn’t serious, and would probably not become serious, the doctor told them. she just had to come in for targeted treatment at times, but it wasn’t something that couldn’t be managed.

the fevers came and went. louis had to learn how to grow used to the unstable nature of his everyday life. some days were normal—he’d go to school while his mother would go to work just as they always had. others days, though, he would wake up and still find his mother under the same beige covers that made her complexion look that even sicker in comparison. life felt like an utter coin flip.

it was eight months after the first fever that the leukemia grew more aggressive, multiplying, eating away more and more of his mother’s health. she had to stay in the hospital for a couple days before she was released again.

he hadn’t admitted to himself until then; how _terrified_ he was, watching his mother waver so. the constant he had always found solace in was beginning to become the opposite. her health was the most inconsistent aspect, ironically. he’d wake up each day, wondering whether he’d be strong enough to make it through without breaking down.

dan eventually came into the picture, luckily, lightening some of louis’ load in regard to taking care of his mother. it never lightened his mental burden, though. the constant worry that maybe he’d wake up one day and something awful, something irreversible, would happen. maybe she would fall into the illness’ clutches in full blast, and he’d be alone once again.

her condition, luckily, stayed pretty consistent until the end of his high school years. with just a few flare-ups, less than a week in total at the hospital, he considered the stagnancy of the entire situation something close to a miracle.

the grace period was cut short mercilessly right before the end of his high school career, however. she had to begin spending long periods hospitalized, it being far too dangerous with her compromised immune system. he’d considered this time to be the worst period of his life for the longest time, with his mother’s illness, and the repeated barrages of harsh words and dark hands he’d faced at school.

as time passed, though, he realized that he would come to wish that he could return to this these days.

they’d reached the hospital at ten o’clock, shortly after the girls had made breakfast. he refused, with the excuse that he’d always been unable to eat in the mornings. they believed him, of course, having shared a very limited amount of breakfasts with him in the past. he felt pricks of guilt after his words were accepted seamlessly, knowing harry would not be pleased with the fact that he hadn’t even tried. but he couldn’t; not on this particular morning. not when he was about to see his mother again, looking much more frailer than before.

hospitals were essentially the same everywhere. different location, different staff, but nevertheless, they all had the same sterile white walls, antiseptic staining the air, nurses with this distinct weariness about them that stemmed from working sixteen hour shifts and dealing with the most stubborn of patients. he hated the stuffiness of it all, the fact that no matter how much time he spent at hospitals, he knew he’d never get used to them.

when they reached her room, he almost wanted to turn tail and run as fast as he could from this place. what if, behind this door, his mother would be thin and gray-skinned and dazed? what if the woman before him was a woman he didn’t recognize?

he felt dan give him a reassuring nudge in the small of his back, and finally plucked up the courage to open the door. he stiffened at the sudden touch, but was grateful that he got the push he needed.

“mum,” he breathed. she was looking much healthier when he last saw her, and he blinked a few times out of disbelief, to make sure his eyes weren’t fooling him yet again.

“oh, darling,” her voice was the same syrupy, songlike timbre that remained so familiar to him, even after they’d grown apart throughout the years. in that moment, he thought he would melt right into the floor, becoming a puddle of stinging emotion from the profundity of everything before him.

before he even knew what was going on, he felt himself swallowed by her arms, which felt much stronger than they looked. she was much thinner than before, but somehow her hold had remained firm. “mum,” he whispered, “i’m sorry.”

“what for?”

“not coming to see you more.”

“you’re going through a lot. i should be the one who’s sorry. i couldn’t help you while you were suffering, either.”

“you’re sick, mum.”

“as are you.”

“not really, no,” they pulled apart, slowly and with difficulty, like there was some kind of sticky taffy that bound them during their embrace. “i’ve been doing okay.”

“you’re not trying to do everything alone, are you? i know you always have.”

“i- no. there’s someone that, someone that’s kind of been helping me through everything.”

“oh? someone special?” she gave him a knowing look, one that he understood all too well.

he rolled his eyes. “no. i mean, i don’t know. maybe i’m a piece of shit for allowing him to take care of me when i know he wants something more from me—something i can’t provide—but really, i don’t think i could ever see myself with _anyone._ not ever.”

“you’re the only person trying to prevent yourself from happiness, lou. everyone else is cheering you on.”

“i know, it’s just- i don’t know.”

“so? what’s this special person’s name?”

“harry,” he said, unable to fend off the inevitable blush creeping up into his ears.

“what’s he like?”

“he’s…” louis’ mind conjured up images of the green-eyed boy’s dimples, his smiles, his quiet, concerned eyebrows. “he’s lovely. he’s got this long-ish curly hair, he’s tall, he treats me so well. even when i don’t deserve it.”

he could tell that his mother wanted to comment on the last part, but ended up deciding against it. “that sounds wonderful, lou. i’d like to meet him someday.”

“we’ll see if he’s still around when that someday comes.”

she smiled sadly at her son. where had she gone wrong as a parent, to call for the strong self-loathing that had manifested itself in her child? what could she have done to avoid all of this? “well, i’ll be here no matter what. just please, lou. don’t run away from happiness. i’m not telling you to start settling down already. just that you deserve a sense of security.”

“thanks, mum.”

he spent the rest of the morning—which had leaked into the afternoon—catching up with her, dan sitting beside the two, adding a few comments here or there. he’d offered to give them some privacy, but louis insisted that it was okay, not wanting to drive him out. there wasn’t anything private that he planned to talk about, anyway.

when they returned back home, he felt the lifting of a chest-crushing burden. although he hated to admit it, he would always imagine his mother shunning him upon seeing his face, angry and betrayed at the length of his absence throughout the years. or maybe she’d finally realized the truth of how repulsive he really was.

that’s part of why his visits were few and far between—though he did feel guilty about not contributing enough to the people who had been so kind to accept him and even share blood with him, he worried even more about being exposed as the disgrace he is. he worried that they would see him for his true nature; fucked up in every regard, selfish, and deformed.

the remainder of his time in doncaster looked about the same. he’d awaken, skip breakfast, pick at his lunch and dinner, harry would call him and they would speak, and he’d try to go to sleep, sometimes interrupted by memories he’d thought he locked away already. when this happened, he’d roll out of bed and do the only thing he knew how to do.

louis had his own way of shutting himself away in this huge vault, one that he imagined to have a door so heavy and impenetrable that it could be used as a bomb shelter. somehow, though, certain memories would manage to slip by. like they were so wispy and thin that they could squeeze between the individual atoms of the chamber he’d store his experiences.

the only way, he learned, to cope, was to replay them all over and over in his mind until they lost their meaning. it’d end up feeling like he was watching the same movie thousands of times; profound and animalistic for the first few showings, but like everything in this world did, it would get old.

it didn’t work in his dreams, though. they just felt so much more real, serving as a reminder that those things had actually happened to _him_ , and not some character he’d written. he could chain it down during his waking hours, but sleep allowed the mind to do as it pleased. and everything would grow much more malignant.

and here, there was no harry to wake up beside. he would momentarily forget where he was, surrounded by unfamiliar blankets and unfamiliar walls, being attacked by unfamiliar smells. it would take several minutes to remember that he was back at doncaster, in his family home where he would never feel like he truly belonged.

he was convinced, at times, that he did not belong in this world at all.

when he and harry reunited, a week and a day after they had left, he could have sworn there were magnets inside harry’s lips and inside his own cheeks.

“lou! i’ve missed you so much. how have you been?”

“we’ve been talking every day, what are you talking about?” he had laughed, but he, in fact, knew exactly what harry was feeling.

“i know, but it’s not the same,” harry whined, “i haven’t been able to hold you like this.”

“yeah,” he sighed, taking in the taller boy’s scent. they were still stood awkwardly outside louis’ apartment, not even bothering to enter before smuggling each other with affection. “we should go inside, people are going to see us.”

“don’t care. wanna show them that you’re mine.”

“i’m not, though.”

“fine. wanna show them that i’m yours.”

“you’re also not mine,” he said, and if harry didn’t know better, he would have thought that the ocean boy said those words with the slightest edge of pain. of longing.

“you have no choice. i’m wearing your boxers because i accidentally packed a pair of yours last week, and it was the last clean one i had. but they’re yours and i’m wearing them so i must be yours, too.”

“nice logic, styles. and that’s gross. probably too big on you, huh?”

“oh, shut up. i’m the one doing your laundry. it was bound to happen at some point.”

“i can do my own laundry, thanks.” he stuck his bottom lip out. he’d missed harry much more than he realized.

“fine. let’s go inside. be ready for cuddles, after i call niall real quick, though.”

“oh, what are you summoning little irish boy for?” he questioned, as he slid his keys into the door handle. it was old, so he had to wiggle them around a bit before the lock finally budged.

harry made a show of sighing dramatically. “he’s been trying to snag me for this new year’s party. i keep telling him i already have plans, but he’s not having it. if i don’t tell him off, he’s literally going to show up at my apartment. i could just let him, since i’m not even there, but i’ve got a bit of mercy so i thought i should at least warn him before he freezes while waiting for me to open the door.”

“as if he’d just stand there forever if you didn’t answer within five minutes.”

“you’d be surprised. i enamor everyone i’m around, after all,” harry chuckled.

“you really do,” louis said, only half-joking. “but you should still go to that new year’s party. you haven’t been able to see your friends as often recently.”

“we already made plans, though,” harry frowned.

“yeah, but we spend every day together. you deserve a break from me.”

“i already had to spend a week away from you, and it was awful. besides, you’re not something i need ‘breaks’ from. you’re not _work_ , lou.”

“whatever. i’m just saying, don’t hold yourself back for my sake.”

“what if you came with me?” the younger boy said quickly and loudly, as if it were some genius theorem he’d just come up with.

“excuse me?”

“i said,” he cleared his throat. “what if you came with me?”

“no,” he said, face twisting into one of confusion and discomfort. “no way.”

“c’mon. i knew you were going to say no, but i wanted to try. it’s okay if you’re not comfortable with it. but i’ll stay by your side the entire time. keep you safe, you know.”

“that defeats the entire purpose of you going. you wouldn’t be able to actually enjoy yourself with me there.”

“who says that?”

“you. me. anyone with a brain, styles.”

“whoa, speak for yourself. i would love having you there. i’d enjoy myself more if you were.”

“i’m just not much of a party person.”

“alright,” harry says, trying not to sound disappointed. he didn’t want to guilt the ocean boy into going somewhere he wasn’t comfortable, but he’d still hoped to do different things with him, make different memories.

“you should still go, though. if you won’t go unless i go, then i’ll drag myself there. you need some fun.”

harry felt like the idea of going had been tainted, now; becoming something like an obligation. louis had turned it into a favor for him rather than a chance to have fun. “you don’t have to do that, babe. seriously. i’m good with just spending a night in with you. you know that.”

“let’s go. call niall and tell him we’re in. as long as i’m welcome, that is.”

“of course you are!” he pulled the boy into another tight hug, this time rougher than before, startling louis. the two had collided a bit harder than expected, and he’d hoped that harry didn’t sense him wince after brushing against his hips. the curly-haired boy didn’t say anything, so he figured that he didn’t notice. “you are always welcome.”

“no, i mean to the rest of the people there. i don’t want to like, make things awkward with my presence.”

“you won’t. it’s going to be pretty hectic, anyway. it’s at this nick dude’s house. there’s gonna be a bunch of beer. and molly. people are going to be too drunk out of their minds to pay attention to anyone else. that’s how it usually goes, anyway.”

“okay. you can call niall and tell him that we’ll be there.”

harry smiled, and the warmth washed over the ocean boy, plucking away all the impurities, the uncertainties. it made his words seem so much more credible, more hopeful. as if things were _really_ going to be okay. “we’ll have fun. i promise.”

“i’ll try,” the ocean boy whispered, dread passing through him as if it’d just hit him that he was actually going to a _party_. “i’ll try.”

“i’ll keep you safe. there will be nothing to worry about.”


	34. to be what one seems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stem the bleeding, please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// RAPE / NON-CON (!!!!!!!!) , implied self harm , eating disorder thinking , past trauma 
> 
> holy shit. let me know what you think. let me know if it's rushed. let me know if it makes any sense at all. i'm sorryi'msorryi'msorry
> 
> also, recently i've been feeling more alone than ever, so i'd like to remind you all that you are not alone. that it gets better. that you are worthy of love and happiness. take care of yourselves. please.
> 
> again, i apologize for everything this is and everything that i am x
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

they arrived at the party at seven p.m., and louis couldn’t help but feel so out of place. he worried at first that he’d be underdressed in just dark jeans and a soft gray sweater, but getting there, he realized that what he was wearing should be the least of his concerns. the place was swarming with people, and the floor was slick with a thick layer of sticky sweat. the bottoms of his shoes would squeak if he didn’t pick them up all the way as he walked.

as soon as he got there, he couldn’t shake the suffocating air that attacked him from all angles. everything smelled of drunkenness and disorient and libido. there were people pressed against each other in the corner, men with their shirts off, women wearing low-cut bodycon dresses grinding on them. it was dizzying.

“haz! lou!” a voice said, scaring louis, who had cricked his neck after turning quickly to see that it was just niall. “it’s nice to see you guys here! i was worried about you, harry. you haven’t been to a party in forever!”

“you know i don’t like these things, ni,” harry shook his head, but chuckled nonetheless. “just not my scene, y’know?”

“bullshit. everyone loves having you around, especially the ladies.” it was clear that the irish boy was hammered, with how his words slurred together into a single gooey thread of hot wax.

“i don’t know like, anyone. just you and li, for the most part.” the younger boy said.

“c’mon. ed’s here. taylor. kendall. liam even brought his girl, maya.”

“alright, alright. i’ll probably stay with lou for the most part, though.”

louis tried to blink away some of the purple light (which came from an unknown source), but it had followed him even past his eyelids, as if staining his entire being. “it’s- it’s fine, hazza. just go and have fun, okay? you haven’t seen liam in a while, make sure to catch up with him.”

“i knooow,” he drawled. “you can meet him too. i want you to meet all my friends.”

louis blushed, momentarily forgetting about the overwhelming surroundings.

after niall peeled himself back to the dancefloor to devour the face of some girl in a black leather skirt and fishnets, the two of them retreated to a corner with a couple of drinks, chatting. louis had gotten his usual vodka soda while harry made himself an extravagant margarita.

the ocean boy recoiled when he felt a large palm with the diameter of what had to be at least the size of a basketball cup his ass. he couldn’t see who it was, as they were gone before he could even turn around. not to mention, it was so crowded he wouldn’t be able to pick the person out even if they hadn’t scrammed after a single squeeze. harry hadn’t noticed, but he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and palms begin to sweat.

it was okay, he told himself. this was a good chance to get over everything, to get used to being touched again. not that he had any control over it. not that he _ever_ had control over it.

he didn’t want harry to sense his discomfort. he knew that if the curly-haired boy had even the slightest suspicion that something was wrong, he would whisk both of them back to louis’ flat with no hesitation. he didn’t want to ruin their nights just because of some trivial touch or two.

“i’m going to the bathroom, need to take a wee,” he tried to say as casually as possible.

“want me to come with you?”

“no, love. i’ll be quick. go off and talk to some of your friends, okay?” before harry could argue, he scurried off, finally allowing his hands to shake and breath to waver. it’s okay. this was okay, he thought. it’ll be okay.

the bathroom was absolutely rancid. it smelled of drunken vomit along with the same b.o. that had apparently clung to every surface in the house. he wondered why people would even agree to hosting these parties, if it left their houses so ruined and chaotic.

he tried to calm his breathing, splashing cold water on his face. this all reminded him of the night that he’d met harry. except, even the bar had been emptier and less choking. his entire bodyweight was held up by the porcelain while time was passing faster than he could keep up with. recently, just one or two shots would be enough to get him drunk, despite the weight he’d gained. he had to get back to harry before he grew suspicious. although, louis thought, he might be doing him a favor by not returning to his side; he could tell that the boy would pay more attention to louis than anything else if he were there, after all.

louis was still shaking. at this point, he knew he was taking far too long, so he grit his teeth, forced a pained grin in the mirror, and wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans. _come on, you can do this. do this for harry._

he returned to the living room, which was where most people were congregated, but harry was not at the place that they’d separated. maybe, he hoped, the boy was whisked away by niall and would come back to find him shortly.

minutes passed, and two turned into ten which turned into twenty, of just standing there awkwardly on his phone, holding a half-drank cocktail as far away from him as possible, like he was absorbing the calories just by being near it, that someone with dilated pupils had handed him before they wobbled into the restroom.

he resolved to look for harry, beginning to feel unfitting and fidgety alone in the corner. there was nothing left to pretend to look busy doing on his phone, and at this point he was just staring at the time, which had blinked blindingly, judgmentally, back at him. he resolved not to text harry in fear of interrupting something, but it’d felt so tempting among everything.

a person slammed into him—a tall, pale man who had to be in his mid or late twenties. _nothing to worry about_ , louis worked to convince himself, _nothing will happen._

up close, he noticed that the man’s features looked eerily similar to jean’s snakelike ones; narrow eyes, thin lips, beady eyes. but there was no birthmark on the back of his neck, as far as he could tell. he let out a relieved breath.

it had undone all of the calming he’d tried to do though, mind now being attacked by memories of jean’s hot breath against his ear, the belt against his back, the way his tongue swiped across his lips. _you will never find anyone kind enough to bear your burden like i do._ there was no scent associated with these memories, though he was unsure whether that was a good or bad thing, as jean never smelled of anything. he was always odorless, despite the soy conditioner he always used in his hair. it was as if he was so otherworldly, not even scents could cling onto him. as if he were a mere figment of louis’ imagination.

the man looked at him, disgusted. like he was an offensive object that ought to remove himself. “watch where you’re going,” he barked, but luckily walked away without much trouble. louis shivered, trying to strip his mind of the past once again, but everything had become discombobulated again—for a second, he forgot where he was, and the room had morphed into the colorless new york penthouse he thought he’d erased.

harry. he needed harry. before his mind passed the threshold of this diminished reality, he needed to tell harry that he had to leave. that he was fine, but this was too much. _pathetic,_ he shouted at himself internally. _so utterly pathetic._ couldn’t even go to any social events without breaking the fuck down. panicking over the smallest things.

he wandered around for what felt like hours, but realistically was probably only a few minutes, until he spotted a curly head that had to belong to harry. there was no one else in this world with such messy, chocolatey brown curls. with that one strand that lilted upwards like a happy nursery song.

“harry?” he rasped, inaudible in the midst of the party, practically having to scrape his feet off the floor. maybe it was because of how sticky it was, or maybe it was because of how _exhausted_ he was. how deeply imbedded the trauma was within him. “harry!”

the boy was laughing, pupils far more dilated than they were when louis had left. he had women hanging off of both of his arms, and no matter what louis did, he felt like he couldn’t get across to him. there was too much space, literally and figuratively, between them. what made him even _begin_ to think that any part of him was worthy of harry? that he had even a toe in harry’s world?

he felt a hand on his shoulder, sending shudders down his back all the way to the tips of his toes.

“hey,” the voice said, much softer, much more alluring than he’d prepared himself to hear. still, he could smell the alcohol on his breath and just that made him stiffen. “you look like a lost puppy. want to come to the bathroom to calm down with me?”

it was a face he didn’t recognize; another man, this time olive-skinned, with long, shoulder-length hair. he had a bit of stubble on his chin and kind-looking eyes. louis allowed himself to be dragged by the man, not that he would possess the strength to be able to fight it even if he were fully conscious of what was going on.

now, he was back in the same disgusting bathroom with the same sour stench and same ugly painting hung on the wall, except this time he wasn’t alone. there was a body pressing him against the sink that he was clutching not even an hour ago, the sink that had held his weight when he felt like he was keeling had now become the thing he was being pinned down against.

everything was _redredred_ now, dark, black spots obstructing his vision. “wh- what are you doing?”

“i’m going to calm you down.” the voice was still soft, but cold. dripping with lust, which louis imagined to be as dark and black as oil, slick and spreading everywhere.

“let go. i’ll scream. let me go. please. stop.” he threatened, knowing full well that his voice was far too hoarse to carry past the door, past the chaos that ensued on the other side.

“c’mon. be a good boy for me. i’ll show you a good time.”

“l- let go. just- just let me get more comfortable, i don’t care. i’ll do what you want me to,” he choked, trying to push down the fear that rose and rose and rose. _just take it. it’ll end quicker._

“well, aren’t you quite the princess?” the man loosened his grip on him, which louis was grateful for. he shifted over so that he was against the wall rather than the sink, so that the marble corner wasn’t digging into his back and hip. while the pain was grounding, he knew that what he had to prepare himself for would be far more painful, and he wanted to avoid passing out the best he could.

hands went to his zipper. _handshandshands._ he tried to pry them away, but to no avail. despite the gentleness of the man’s voice, his arms were big and firm. he could probably snap louis’ spine in half if he really tried. he was shaking so hard—or maybe it was the room, the world, that was shaking. it hadn’t mattered, he just wanted it all to stop.

he felt himself harden as the man touch him, and _god, he was so disgusting_ , such a _whore_. was he actually secretly, deep down, _enjoying_ this? he’d told the man to stop, but now he was _hard?_ the thought made his head spin and his eyes screw shut. it’s okay. it was okay. he was used to this.

“turn around for me, baby.” the pet name made him flinch. how had it seemed so cruel rolling off of this man’s lips but so loving when it came from harry?

nevertheless, he obliged. the man’s breath beat hard into his ear, and his member slid in. louis screwed his eyes shut, trying to keep his tears from streaming down mercilessly. it was just like then; except this time it wasn’t dark and the lights were blindingly bright. but it’d felt the same. as he felt the man slithering in and out of him, his blood ran colder and colder. he couldn’t even make any noise. the world was fuzzy around him.

his boxers slid further down as the man readied his fingers to reach into louis, revealing an array of old and new scar tissue. “god, you’re really fucked up, aren’t you? shame, because the rest of you is so pretty. i’ll just try not to pay too much attention to it.”

he knew he was disgusting, but it was different _hearing_ it from someone else again. it had been so long since he’d heard a voice that was not his own shame him for being everything that he was; tainted, corrupt, fucked up, disgusting. the cruel words were so familiar they almost felt like _closure_. closure that confirmed his own perceptions of himself.

his phone, he’d realized, which was thrown aside after his pants had slid off, was now vibrating, with harry’s contact name flashing mockingly on the screen. he wanted to bend over to pick it up, to answer, to beg so _selfishly_ for help, but the man was so fastened inside of him, so violently, so deeply, he felt warmth dripping down his leg. and he wondered if it was blood from the man’s penetration or blood from the man’s hands rubbing against his half-healed wounds.

he shut his brain off from everything, trying to direct his thoughts to anywhere else; anywhere that wasn’t this bathroom where a random man was shoving himself into him, anywhere that wasn’t the new york penthouse he’d shared with jean, anywhere that wasn’t that goddamned dark closet he was always thrown in, anywhere that noxious words didn’t drift chokingly down up his nose and down his throat. anywhere that the gods would allow him to simply _rest,_ away from the nights that scared him so much, away from the mornings he’d have to wake up and have the memories from the night before crush him like an avalanche.

so he closed his eyes, and even tried to _enjoy_ it. the man was huge, so much that he thought he was splitting open as he was pressed further and further against the wall. the less he struggled, he thought, the quicker he’d be able to see harry.

 _i am that i am. i am that i am. i am not what i am. i am not what i am._ is he, he wondered, the person he was destined to be? the person that he’s always been? has he, from the moment he was born, fated to be so _defiled,_ so _obscene?_ is that why these things happened to him? is this all that he was, and would ever be, good for? he laughed bitterly, although it was too weak to even be called a laugh. of course he’d be thinking about shakespeare right now. of course he’d be thinking about the bible. of course, he would, as he was getting his guts rearranged painfully by some stranger whose face he couldn’t even remember. god, it was almost purgative.

it was so easy, really, to dissociate from everything happening around him, he realized, that he’d completely lost consciousness. he didn’t even notice when his world slipped into one of white nothingness.

he came to with his head against the cold tile floor, briefly forgetting about what had happened before he passed out. it was a blissful ignorance, he remembered; a state which he wished he could remain in forever.

the lights were, yet again, blinding white. so much so that he’d thought he was in this whole new, undiscovered state of consciousness; one where he was treading back and forth between the blurred line of reality. his jeans were still around his knees, scars now reopened and slick with sticky blood. he was alone now, thankfully. his phone was a few feet beside him, and it’d almost felt like too much effort to grab.

he debated simply remaining in the restroom to rot, which the man had taken the courtesy to lock behind him so that no one would walk in on louis. it was now close to midnight, which he’d remembered was new year’s. ironic, he thought. new year, new him.

maybe he shouldn’t call harry. it wasn’t important, and who knew how intoxicated harry was now, if he was already tipsy and slightly high a few hours ago. who knew, where he was, and if he cared, if he hadn’t bothered to look for louis after he just had his brains fucked out of him in a shit stain of a bathroom. what did it matter?

he’d called anyway. he couldn’t move, his legs were too soft beneath him. he was somehow hungry, ravenous even, like he’d never been before. it didn’t matter what it was, how many calories—he just needed to eat something. maybe he should just have harry rape him before every meal. he couldn’t care less, at this point.

the curly-haired boy picked up after only two rings. “hello?” harry sounded worried, with so much nervous energy louis wondered how he could even muster. though, he guessed, the boy hadn’t had to endure what he did.

“h-hi.” his voice wouldn’t come out. it’d refused, wholly inaudible, worrying harry even more.

“hello? lou? you there? it’s almost midnight. i’ve been looking for you all night,” and god, he almost sounded _annoyed, irritated_ with him, for being absent. louis wished that the world would open a gaping hole for him to fall into, to allow him to pummel into the center until his body burned into nothingness, with no trace of his disappearance. it would be easy, now that he thought about it. he was alone, after all.

he still couldn’t speak, as if it were not just his bottom half paralyzed, but his entire body. he knew harry would grow impatient, especially his drunken self that had lacked any remote fragment of inhibition, and leave. harry would leave, he was sure of it. and maybe it would be for the better.

“lou, please. you’re worrying me. did you go home or something? why didn’t you tell me if you were? did you take the car?”

of course he hadn’t, he thought. he didn’t even have the keys. he wanted to scream. he screamed and screamed and screamed, mouth ajar, but his vocal chords, once again, failed him. maybe his asshole wasn’t the only thing that had been penetrated without his permission. _great._

staggered breathing was picked up by the mic, however, and now that harry had stepped outside, he could hear the sounds of shouting voices in the background of the other line. so louis was still at the party, after all. “lou. where are you?” he raised his voice, panic beginning to crawl its way into his system. “the bathroom? fuck, did you never come back from the bathroom that first time?”

harry hadn’t even _tried_ to look for him, he realized. the first logical choice to check would be the bathroom. but he hadn’t. somehow, this very idea made his chest burn with loneliness—something he thought he’d grown accustomed to, but was still so unbearably painful. “yeah,” he finally croaked, voice clearing before fogging up again with wet tears. “bathroom.”

“shit, lou. shit, shit, shit. i’m- i- fuck. i’m sorry. stay on the line with me. please. i’m coming.”

he heard footsteps from harry’s line, so loud and unsteady, they’d reminded him of his own erratic heartbeats. eventually, they synced with the ones outside his door, which harry had begun slamming his fists against, sending the ocean boy back into a memory; one where a man had bashed his ruthless hands into the back of a closet door.

he gathered himself, despite everything, and twisted the lock ever-so-slightly, just enough for it to click, before falling right down again. he realized that he’d forgotten to fix his pants before allowing harry in, leaving his angry red scars out on display.

“oh, fuck, lou. what the fuck did you do? why here?”

he began sobbing, choking on his own tears as harry shut the door behind him. he couldn’t breathe, not with the bathroom feeling so crowded, not with another _man_ in there with him; a man who could hurt him again. he just wanted it all to stop. selfishly, he begged the world to stop spinning for his sake, for everything to be put on hold just so he could _rest._

he felt arms close around his hips again, and he panicked, because _not again, oh, fuck, not again,_ but they’d only dabbed at his wounds, stinging them with cold water which had dripped down his legs. the pain was relaxing, grounding—so much so that his breathing had calmed, and he was finally able to focus his sight on the boy before him: green eyes, soft features, curly hair. everything that comfort was, all embodied in a single person and wrapped to perfection.

harry gasped when he finally caught sight of the thick, white, now dried substance that was smeared against his behind, smell so foul that it couldn’t even be covered by the other stenches in the room.

“fuck, lou. oh, fuck. i fucked up. i’m so fucking- i’m fucking sorry. i’m- fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck. we need, we need a rape kit. i need to get niall. we need to get you out of here. hospital. right. fuck. loubear. please hang in there. just. i’ll get you cleaned up. or maybe i shouldn’t. fuck. rape kit. right. okay. i’m going to go-“

“no. it’s fine. don’t leave.”

“lou,” harry’s voice was shaking, unsteady and threatening to spill over with tears. “you need to _tell_ someone. this is all so fucked up. i should’ve been with you. i should have looked for you earlier. my dumb ass got drawn in by other people and i’d tried to convince myself you would be okay and- fuck, i’m sorry. i need to stop making excuses. right. fuck, okay. i’m going to be right b-“

“stop.” the walls were closing in on him now, steady and impending. “just, just stay. i’ll pick myself up, and we can go home. i don’t need to go to a fucking hospital. it’s okay. i’m sorry. i’m sorry for ruining your night. i’m sorry for calling you and bothering you with this when you were enjoying yourself,” he heaved, enlisting everything he had to force out a pained smile. “it’s okay, alright? i’m fine. i can deal with this on my own. please”

harry was speechless at this. how could _louis,_ such a beautiful boy, be _apologizing_ for inconveniencing him after having just been so violently violated? just how _little_ did his own life matter to him? “no. no, no, no, no. none of this is your fault. stop apologizing. i’m- yeah. let’s go home. come here,” he bent down to pick up the boy after pulling up his pants, who was surely lighter, smaller, than he’d been the last time they’d done anything like this.

“alright. let’s go home, yeah?” harry said, holding his ocean boy tightly in his arms. “let’s go home.”


	35. i hope you die when another has your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ignore the broken glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// rape , pedophilia 
> 
> let me know what you think of this. not sure if it's rushed or not, i kind of had trouble depicting this in a way that seemed smooth and made sense. 
> 
> stay safe! also, this subject is pretty personal to me as well, we'll delve deeper as we progress through the story. we are only just now finding more about louis!
> 
> also, please let me know, are the chapters too short? should i postpone my posting of them so that when i do, they're longer? 
> 
> take care of yourselves, i love you, and you are worth so much. remember that. it's hard, but it'll be okay. sorry again for my writing. 
> 
> -

he awoke to the sound of harry’s voice. his words were licking with flames, causing louis to flinch at the malice that seemed to cling to the younger boy’s lips. he’d seen him angry before, but never with such intensity; the kind that was ready to plow down anything in sight. harry hadn’t seemed to notice that he’d regained consciousness, since he only continued yelling at his phone, which he was holding so tightly, so severely, that louis thought it would shatter in his hands. 

“i don’t _fucking care,_ nick. i don’t care how high or drunk he was! find out who he is, and find out now, so that i can hurt him. the fact that you’d invited someone like that in the first place is ridiculous!” harry paused. “how dare you? you should have seen what louis looked like when i found him. you try finding the person you love bleeding, shaking, drenched in another man’s fluids. he was raped, nick. you’re a piece of shit for not believing it. i guess there’s no point in arguing with someone with shit for brains. you know what? fuck you and fuck anyone who agrees with you. i can’t deal with this.” he slammed the phone down, still seething.

nick, louis remembered, was the person that hosted the party, the person whom the house belonged to. “harry?” he rasped, voice still scratchy and painful.

“fuck, you scared me. you’re awake? how are you feeling?” harry immediately softened, a completely different person from before. “are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

“i’m sure. just want to go home.” the ocean boy replied, not even considering it. the doctors didn’t actually care about these kinds of cases, after all. he’d go if he began noticing infection, but otherwise, he didn’t want any more trouble than necessary. no one would ever help him before, so why now?

besides, he _technically_ gave consent. not at first, but near the end—he was the one who let it happen. it was his fault. he wished that he could articulate that to harry, but the boy refused to listen.

“i think the guy would be better off in trouble, no? so he can’t hurt anyone else like he hurt you.”

“no. i- i know this is selfish. i’m selfish. but i really don’t even want to ever think about it again.” and _fuck,_ he was about to cry again. “just let this go, yeah? i’m sorry for ruining your night. what time is it? is it new year’s yet?”

“hey, stop. that’s the least of my concerns right now. it’s nearly one o’clock. but i don’t fucking care about any of that. right now, i just want you to worry about yourself right now.”

“happy new year, i guess,” louis said bitterly, knowing that nothing he could say would change the boy’s mind. he remembered the feeling of the man blow a load inside of him, filling him up with red-hot filth, with unworthiness. the memory made him want to claw through his skin and rip out his guts. he wanted to _hurt._ he wanted to bleed himself dry; clean of the impurities. “i’ll be fine. want to be alone.”

they pulled up into the garage connected to louis’ apartment complex, harry swiping the keycard that he’d since kept in his car after getting close to louis. “alright. we can talk about things in the morning. i just want you to be safe. i love you, lou.”

now, more than ever, he was unable to respond. so he just nodded, and harry took that as a cue to continue talking as he parked.

“i’ll give you all the time and space you need. again, i am so, so sorry. so unbelievably sorry. for leaving you alone, for assuming you were fine on your own, for not looking for you earlier. fuck, it’s my fault this happened in the first place. if i hadn’t-“

“it’s fine. seriously. i’m-“ _this kind of thing is all i’m good for, the only thing i don’t fuck up. and even then, i’ll find a way,_ he thought, but couldn’t say it aloud. “i didn’t exactly resist the guy. so it was on me, anyway. just don’t worry about it. i’ll get over it in due time, i promise,” he said weakly.

“that doesn’t give _anyone_ the right to do that to you. you were _crying. shaking._ and he _still_ didn’t stop, the sick bastard. please don’t let this ruin nights out for you, lou. i’ll do better next time. i’ll stay with you. i want you to be able to have fun.”

“there’s a reason i didn’t want to go in the first place,” he mumbled, just quiet enough so that harry couldn’t hear, before raising his voice back to its usual level. “you shouldn’t have to babysit me. i should be able to take care of myself. i’m not a child, harry.”

“and look where that’s landed you,” the younger boy bit, a little too sharply. “sorry. i didn’t mean-“

“you’re right. don’t apologize. i’m pathetic.” he was done with this conversation, moving to undo his seatbelt, wanting nothing more than to just _lay down._ the exhaustion was seeping into his bones.

but every movement he made caused for sharp, unrelenting to pain shoot up his bottom, through his back, and to his head, leaving him to fall back into the limp, half-laying position he was originally in. “let me help you, love. it’s alright.”

normally, he would have protested, but he was just so _tired._ he wanted to relax and imagine that the earlier events hadn’t happened. it would just become one of the many things he kept behind that heavy vault, buried and never to be dug back up again. if he started forgetting now, he thought, maybe things would be easier. maybe he’d be okay sooner.

but when harry scooped him up, he felt himself back up against that sink, against the tile floor, against the cold walls. or even worse, in that new york penthouse. or that dark, musty closet. and as if experiencing all of it once again, he started shaking and thrashing about, panic outweighing the physical pain tearing his bum open. “let me, let me- let me go, letmegoletmegoletmego.” his eyes were now foggy, dull, and gray rather than the blue harry always found himself drowning in, filled with what could hardly be described by a word as simple as fear—if anything, it was hysteria. 

“babe, no. calm down, sunflower. calm down.” harry hoped—prayed—that maybe his voice would calm the boy down, would ground him back to reality. like things always worked out in the movies, the novels, the stories. but it wasn’t that simple, and it hadn’t worked out that way. louis only continued flailing, letting out breathy screams that weren’t exactly screams; they were closer to heaves, so much that harry was worried that the boy would vomit all over him in this moment.

he had no choice but to set him back down in the passenger seat, allowing him to breathe heavily, feeling helpless with his inability to do anything at all to help the boy. the sight was heartbreaking, bright red patches covering the boy’s cheeks, bruises in the shapes of hands climbing up his throat. harry wanted to be sick right then and there.

snow began to fall outside, large white flakes falling in stark contrast to the pitch black sky. it felt like a reminder that spring would never come. it made the pain feel so much more permanent than it ever had. what harry always thought was something beautiful, almost _warm_ despite its nature, was now heartless, it seemed.

he wished for nothing more than a dreamless sleep.

they eventually made their way back to louis’ apartment, having to take so long with small and steady steps, in consideration of louis’ behind, that it’d almost reached two in the morning by the time they’d settled down.

the ocean boy insisted on being alone that night, and harry couldn’t exactly argue with him. he didn’t want a repeat of what had happened in the garage, nor did he want for louis to remember anything he didn’t have to. they compromised that louis would leave his bedroom door open while the younger boy slept on the couch, so that if anything happened, he’d be there, not even a door away.

the dried blood hadn’t completely been washed off of him, louis noticed, and a shower was everything he was craving at the moment. but he was just so overcome by a thick layer of exhaustion, one so incorrigible and cold, he’d fallen asleep instantly as he came into contact with his shitty mattress.

-

his mother’s cousin, whom he called matthew, always carried a pocket bible around with him. he had long hair, similar to that of the man in the bathroom, but it was almost pulled back into a neat, tight bun. he wore small, circular glasses and spoke with a slight stutter, one that made all his ideas seem reluctant, uncertain.

he’d bring toy trucks for louis, visiting often and looking after him while his mother was at work. he acted almost as the father figure the small boy never quite had the access to. they’d play footie, with his long hair flapping in the wind making this smacking sound, as if it were made of rubber, and the wind was repeatedly stretching and releasing it.

the first time it happened was when louis was only six years old. it was spring break for his primary school, and it was when his mother’s working hours were the most harrowing. so she’d requested matthew to look after the boy during the day, at least until the afternoon so that he wouldn’t have to stay home alone for more than a couple of hours. he woke up excited; excited to see matthew, excited to show him what he was learning at school. he’d always been a bright child, lightyears, it seemed, ahead of the other boys his age, reading books written for middle schoolers, flipping through encyclopedias when he figured he had nothing better to do.

matthew arrived at around eight in the morning that day—a comfortably warm april day, as if summer was already beginning to bleed selfishly into earlier months. bright white petals clung to tree branches until they no longer could, embedding themselves all too often in peoples’ hair or clothes.

“t-t-the flowers suit the darling boy that you are,” matthew would always tell him, which made him smile widely. although he loved football, louis was never a super boyish kid, preferring reading over mucking around with other children. he never really understood why they all seemed to be so obsessed with coming off as rugged and manly. he’d much rather be called pretty, if anything.

they went to the park, where the pedals were the most abundant as they drifted through the air weightlessly, tickling louis’ nose in a feathery way that reminded him of being showered by his mother’s kisses when he was younger, when things were a little simpler. that wasn’t to say he was unhappy now, but it was true that he missed how his mother would hold him like he was the only thing in the world.

he told matthew about how he scored top of the class on their spelling quiz, beating everyone by more than any student in their first year of primary school should ever. _o-o-of course you did, l-little one. m-my pretty little boy,_ he said in response, ruffling louis’ hair, giving him a wet kiss on the cheek. he bought a small cup of pistachio ice cream for him as a reward.

they returned him at around noon, louis’ mood higher than it had been in ages, lips still sticky from the ice cream. his mother never allowed him sweets, saying that they’d rot his teeth, so when matthew snuck him lollies and raspberry gummies, he’d treat them like some sort of holy grail, savoring them as slowly as possible. for the gummies, he was always sure to split each into four bites, chewing slowly until the flavor was long gone. matthew teased him for this, assuring him that he’ll get more in the future, but louis insisted upon eating in his particular manner. and everything was perfect.

it was perfect until matthew proposed that they played with toy trucks and dolls in his mother’s walk-in closet, where it smelled of dust and dampness. it struck him as an odd suggestion, since they’d always played in his room, where everything was available. but he hadn’t questioned it, since it was only matthew, and maybe it would be fun, after all.

but the toys were pried out of his hands and set aside when they’d entered after matthew had double, triple-checked that the door was securely closed.

“what are we doing?” he’d asked naively, “why did you take my truck?”

“w-w-we’re playing something different today. it’ll be fun.” he responded with that stutter of his, sliding his arms around louis’ small, fragile body.

“what are you doing, matthew?” louis squeaked, as the man pressed his body, hard, against his own. he smelled sour, almost sharp to his nose. “what are we playing?”

“shhh. j-j-just trust me, lou. i’ll keep you safe.”

“safe from what?”

“t-t-the world. everything.”

his hands pulled at louis’ elastic waistband, sliding down both his little joggers as well as his red boxer briefs, which matthew had just bought for him the month before. he just stood still and allowed for it to happen—they had taken bathes together before, and he figured that this was just something like that.

“i’m a big boy now,” he said, “i can dress myself.” but he could hear no bath running, and the man showed no intention of opening the closet door anytime soon.

“j-just stay still, okay? be a good boy.” he stroked between louis’ legs, gently, as if it were something to be worshipped. it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and his entire body stiffen. they’d hugged and given each other pecks on the cheek before, but nothing ever so intimate. and it never felt so _wrong._

but he owed matthew, he thought. he should trust him. besides, he instructed louis to be good; after everything, how could he defy the man that had always provided so much comfort before? “okay,” he nodded, eyes screwed shut.

“you l-l-love me, right?”

“yeah. i, i do.”

he felt the man’s lips close around his member, wet and slippery. it filled him with this nauseous feeling, and all his instincts told him to run, run as fast as he could. “what kind of game is this?” he whispered, trying his best not to cry. he couldn’t do that now. “are you having fun?”

“y-y-you’re being perfect. i’m having _s-s-so_ much fun, louis. j-j-just a little longer.” matthew’s hands now found his way to louis’ behind, cold fingers nestling right inside of him. it hurt; his nails were grown out and sharp.

“are we going to be done soon? is mummy going to be home soon?” his voice was now shaking, which matthew interpreted to be pure pleasure.

“w-w-we don’t have to be done if you don’t want to be. your m-m-mother won’t be home for a few hours. s-s-so we have all the t-t-time in the world.”

“o-okay,” he was crying now, shaking like a leaf. “i want to, i want to sleep.”

“w-w-we have to stay in here, okay? so that people won’t see us. if people see us, bad people would take you away from me, understand? y-y-you can’t tell anyone about this.” his stutter almost made the situation laughable, as if louis were the one forcing him to do these things, to stay locked in the murky room. like he was the one forcing his dick (if it could even be called that—being so undeveloped) down the man’s throat.

if this was so right, then why would people disapprove? louis thought, but nothing would come out of his mouth. matthew just continued dragging his tongue against the boy’s body like some kind of transient slug.

by the time it was over, he all the energy drained out of him. even walking steadily was difficult; despite the lack of penetration. matthew kept trying to get him to play like they normally had, as if none of it had even happened. like it was a sick joke, like it was all an ugly dream he’d conjured up feverishly. when his mother returned home, he was still not able to act completely normal. she questioned his odd behavior, but figured that he was simply catching a cold.

“cheer up, love,” she joked, “it’s spring break, so faking sick won’t get you out of anything.”


	36. for whom the moon shines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for whom the bell tolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// self harm , eating disorder , suicidal ideation 
> 
> this chapter is kind of a limit test, so i'm sorry nothing really happens. i need to set things up a bit more before the story can keep moving. though, i am proud of some of the rhetorical choices i made here. 
> 
> thank you, as always. and thank you riyaaa (i think that's how many a's there are) on ao3 for making my day with the lovely comments. they mean a lot to me.
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

he woke up only three hours after he’d fallen asleep, despite the strength of the fatigue. he was used to this, of course, but a heavy feeling still settled in his chest after having been thrust so ruthlessly into the world he’d worked so hard to forget.

harry remained asleep on the couch. the boy’s eyes cheeks were wet with tears, curls a mess. neither of them showered upon returning home, despite the fact that both were in desperate need of one. the slight smell of alcohol still clung to their clothes, a nasty reminder of everything that had happened.

louis tried to convince himself that he wasn’t so affected by it; it was something he should have been used to, if anything, but it was undeniable that the large man in the bathroom had begun to unwind years of carefully wrapped-up evidence of his uncleanliness, reminding him of what it had all felt like once again.

harry was beautiful, though, acting as what seemed to be his one and only solace. the only thing that he felt provided closure. it was another one of those starless nights, where he would normally smoke and stare at the moon, wondering if it knew about how he lived, or if it knew how he would die. or if he was so insignificant that the moon wasn’t looking back at him at all, but rather gazing coldly, mockingly, into nothingness.

the moon, usually so lonely, so close yet so far from the sun, however, gave harry’s skin a dewy glow. he was colored this whitish-blue, accentuating the length of his eyelashes. he’d realized how _tired_ the younger boy was as well, with dark circles forming like purple bruises beneath his eyes. guilt sunk through him like an anvil, crushing all this organs in the process. _he_ was the cause for harry’s exhaustion. _he_ was the reason why the boy had looked like he was wilting recently, soft edges unable to hold themselves up, brittle and void of true light.

and he’d never be able to provide that true light. not with how damaged he was, and would always be.

he’d decided to read, unable to gather the heart to disturb harry from the sleep he looked like he was so starved of. _the sun also rises_ is what he started after finishing _great expectations_. he found it from dan’s collection of books back at home, and he’d let him take the copy after seeing his interest.

 _“i am always in love,”_ he would read, and wonder if there was any truth to the statement. of course, taken out of context, it could mean a variety of things. but love, in the presence of aimlessness, of frivolity, he felt, could never exist. not in tandem.

could one be lost and be in love at all? did the feeling of being lost come from love?

was he lost?

the idea of loving harry was terrifying, so he settled on being lost. the last time he told someone that he’d loved them was in manhattan, five thousand feet above the ground, after being told that no one would ever love him like that again. that he was nothing. that he was _made_ to be hurt. that it was all he was good for.

after jean, he’d vowed that he would never love someone again. he didn’t want to make the mistake of getting attached to someone only for them to change, and he didn’t want to subject someone to his _brokenness._ especially not someone as perfect as harry. not someone who could do so much better.

despite being tired, it was as if his legs moved on his own. before he knew it, they were leading him back to the bathroom. he realized—being in the familiar environment where he would always scrutinize his body like it were something offensive—how achingly hungry he was. his gut twisted and bubbled, begging for sustenance. his hunger cues were beginning to come back full swing, at times much more severe than others. as much as it was satisfying, feeling so hungry and denying himself of what his stomach pleaded for, it was frustrating. as if he’d come to believe in his months of straight starving that he was somehow above food. that his body shouldn’t need it, that it shouldn’t even ask for it. _selfish._

in all honesty, he was far too tired to hurt himself. or even _want_ to hurt himself. it was simply an obligation, a given. breathing is to being alive as cutting or starving was to louis.

it wasn’t even pleasant, this time. he couldn’t feel anything, and it left him tingling in the worst way possible. winter made him more reckless; he’d allowed himself to do it on his wrists more often, as some kind of treat for when things were extra bad. or when he was extra bad.

sometimes, though, he’d nick a nerve, sending relentless unfeeling all through his arm from his elbow to his first three fingers. the sensation would make itself most known in the most inconvenient of times—when he was doing things that required precise movements, like writing or typing.

he was doing a good job of hiding it all from harry until last night, when he was found sprawled nearly naked on the floor bleeding. all the secrets and memories he’d tried so hard to protect were put out onto display so easily.

when he emerged back from the bathroom, freshly bandaged, harry was sitting upright, disoriented.

“haz?” he went about cautiously, “good morning.”

“lou, you were awake. how are you feeling?”

 _patronizing._ “i’m fine. better.”

“breakfast? anything in particular you’d like?”

“n-not hungry,” he looked down, pulling his sleeves further over his hands.

harry’s brows furrowed with concern. “babe, you’ve got to eat. you were doing so well. please? maybe just some oatmeal?”

he sighed. “whatever. i mean, yeah. anything’s fine, then.”

“that’s my sunflower.”

it took seven, maybe eight minutes for harry to set everything back down on the table. louis was still staring outside. the moon was still there, leaving an imprint on the daytime sky. like a reminder. of what, louis didn’t know, but it was comforting it its own way. of course, he knew that it wasn’t sentient, that it would never know what it meant to louis along with so many people, but he wished. he wished he could scream at the moon and tell it to stop, to stop taunting him.

“lou, food is ready,” harry appeared, arms snaking around louis’ waist, to which he stiffened, but the younger boy hadn’t seemed affect by it at all. “how are you feeling?”

“i’m okay. it is what it is. can’t do anything about it anymore. it’s over.”

“don’t minimize this. what happened to you was awful. it shouldn’t have happened at all.”

“but it did. so what’s the point in fretting?” his eyes were still empty, still staring at the sky, where the moon had been. it was gone now, the sun outshining it. maybe harry was the sun, he thought.

“i guess so. but your struggles are valid; you are worth so much. please don’t forget that, love.”

louis didn’t respond, which made harry’s stomach twist with this gut-wrenching pain for the boy, knowing that he didn’t believe a single word. it was like he was so far gone that he was standing at the end of a building, but instead of seeming uneasy about falling, he had this look of longing, as if he could disappear with no qualms. the idea scared harry—the boy he treasured so much, unable to treasure himself.

“let’s go eat, yeah?”

he only nodded, biting his bottom lip.

oatmeal reminded him of that first time at the hospital, the brown substance warm against his bare legs and stench permeating through the air. just the memory made him feel sick.

“you haven’t been eating properly,” harry stated, so sure of himself. “ever since you went to your parents’.” louis said nothing, so he kept going. “you’ve got to keep trying, love.”

but oh, god, living had felt so _heavy_. the idea of heaviness weighing down on his stomach as well was so unbearable. if he felt this way, there was no way the younger boy was any less exhausted. “you need to take care of yourself, too, harry. don’t blame yourself for how messed up i am.”

“lou—“

“no. i’m sorry. i’m sorry for making you feel so inadequate. for pushing you away all this time. for opening up to you. for making you feel like you have to take care of me. for being such a child.” his voice was shaking, and he bit his bottom lip even harder, as if it would stop the quivering. it hadn’t. “you’re always so adamant about making me happy. but are you? are you happy with me?”

“it’s okay. it’s okay, really. it’s just, it would be much easier if i knew the full story, though. so i can figure out how to help you better.”

“it’s not your job.”

“i know. and i’m not trying to get you to say anything you’re not comfortable with. but i just think it would help. to process things, you know?”

“that’s… that’s not what i’m trying to talk about right now, harry. i’m just saying,” the image of harry’s tired, broken sleeping face flashed through his mind. “i’m just saying that i might not be the best thing for you right now. and don’t say that my happiness is yours. you would berate me if i said that, so don’t even try.”

“i’d be lying if i said i wasn’t a little burnt out. i’m sure you know that. but you’re struggling and i can’t ignore that.”

“can we forget about it all for a while? like, just pretend none of this ever happened. my time at the hospital, what happened last night.”

“lou, you know i can’t do that.” harry drew back, the corners of his eyes being pulled down again. “that would be too… too disrespectful to you and your experiences. or maybe disrespectful isn’t the right word. what i meant was- i meant, i didn’t want it to seem like i’m invalidating your pain.”

“i just don’t want to be patronized. like i’m some sort of kicked puppy. i hate when you look at me like that.” his words felt unnatural; harsh and bitter in his mouth. he knew that harry just cared, even though it was misplaced.

“do you love me?”

“harry—“

“do you?”

“i’m afraid to admit to something like that to myself and have it bite me in the ass later.” he breathed.

“so you’re afraid to let me in.”

“you’re the one talking about not wanting to oversimplify my pain and yet, here you are. oversimplifying my words.”

“i’m sorry,” harry said slowly. it’s like they had transcended the threshold of time, of haste. despite the high emotion of the moment, both of them were steady as they tread on the line of danger. “you are just so blindingly bright, i forget myself at times. it drives me crazy, there being so much i don’t know. about your past, about your present feelings, about where you plan to go and whether you plan to have me in it. because i plan on you. i’d like to, at least, if you’d allow me.”

“the most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much—“

“and forgetting you are special too.” harry interrupted, “i know. _men without women._ hemmingway.”

“of course you would know,” louis, for the first time since he’d last seen harry, cracked a genuine smile. “but i’m being serious. don’t forget to put yourself first.”

“only if you do.”

“you like hemmingway?”

“i do.”

“it’s fitting for you.”

“are you planning on telling me anything at all?”

“someday. it just, it sucks more than i thought it would. to even acknowledge some of these feelings are there in the first place.”

“i know, and i’m sorry. but does that mean you’ll accept me as part of your future?”

he pursed his lips and pursed his heart, wanting to close in on himself completely. his voice shook in a way that the younger boy wished that he could grab it and steady it, like it were a hand or a rubber band that had just been struck. “harry, i- i don’t know if i’ll ever _enjoy_ \- i don’t know if i’ll ever _enjoy_ sex. and i don’t know if i’ll ever be truly happy. and i don’t know if i even _want_ to be happy. or if i’m even going to be here for much longer.”

“be where?”

_“here.”_

“why?” it was a simple question, something so empty of meaning yet so full of emotion and confusion. harry wished he could say something more profound. he wished that he could personally chain the ocean boy to the world. but louis had looked so serious when he spoke, even he was beginning to be convinced that the boy was simply _not of this world._

“because,” he started, “it would just be so easy. there’s nothing tying me down.”

“writing? school? your future?”

“not important.”

“your family?”

“they will be fine without me.” _will,_ harry noticed. like he was so sure of it all.

“and me?”

“you fall in the same category as my family.”

“you see me as family?”

“you only hear what you want to, huh.” it was a statement, not a question. but harry interpreted it as one, anyway.

“no. my stubborn ass just wants to pretend like you didn’t just say what you did.” _like the world wouldn’t crumble if you weren’t here to hold it together._

“but it’s true.”

the sun was beginning to go on its path across the sky, from peeking right over the horizon to now eyeing the two, the world, directly. it was well into the morning at this point. _it’s not, it’s not, it’snotit’snotit’snot,_ harry wanted to scream. he wanted to scream until his throat was bloody and his eyes were shot.

but again, since he knew he wouldn’t be able to say anything, he just drew his lips to the boy’s forehead (the height difference was perfect), so ravenously that it was like he had been holding back the entire time—and maybe he had been.

harry hoped, with everything he had, that the kiss would convey his feelings to the boy.

and it must’ve, he figured, because he could have sworn the boy whispered the words he’d wanted to hear so bad.

_“i do love you, i just need some time.”_

and it might have just been his imagination, but if it had been, he didn’t care. he could probably write an entire discography just describing the joy that had bloomed in his chest, he thought.

it reminded him of the verses he’d written after the big fight between the two. he hadn’t thought of them or touched them since, but now he had this burning exigence to complete the song, to pour all of these feelings out so that he was completely hollow, and present them like a sacrificial offering to louis and the gods. maybe then, he’d be forgiven for feeling so deeply, so impurely.

“so where do we go from here?” he’d asked.

“we go about life as normal,” the ocean boy responded. the striking blue had returned into his eyes, submerging harry into this never-ending pit where nothing lived or breathed. “we wake up, bathe in the domesticity of our everyday mundane tasks, and tell ourselves that the things that matter will always remain out of our control.”

“control is overrated.”

“that it is.”

“so why do you search so fervently for something that’s supposed to have such little meaning?”

“every man needs to entertain his delusions, or he’ll go insane.”

“will you ever consider speaking to a therapist? or is that too much to ask at this point?” the words didn’t come across sarcastic at all, though to some, they would seem that way. louis knew better, though. he knew harry’s ins and outs more than he’d like to admit.

“no. i’d never given it careful consideration, truth be told, but in all seriousness, i don’t think it’d help me. i can hardly even open up to _you._ don’t want to have to worry about the second step when i haven’t even overcome the first.”

“so you’re willing to see this as something to work at overcoming?” he asked. “because that would mean so much to me. i’m so scared of losing you.”

“i know, that’s why i’m _trying._ though it may not be enough.”

“it’s all we can do, really.”

another kiss, this time initiated by louis, taking harry aback. but it really _had_ felt like there were magnets behind each set of lips, they had fit together so naturally. in the same way, it was as difficult to pull apart as it was easy to come together.

“it makes sense that you’re a hemmingway person. romantic fucker.”

he didn’t think any tears shed that day would be from relief, but there they were, streaming endlessly. “you love me, though.”

“yeah.”


	37. genesis, exodus, leviticus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i will only be satisfied once the worms get to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// trauma , past abuse , mentions of self harm and tools , mention of eating disorder
> 
> this is a transitionary chapter to finding out a bit more about louis. it was honestly a struggle to write, and i don't know how good the quality of my writing is. been in a bit of a funk lately. it's alright, though. 
> 
> something i told my friend the other day: you're worthy of happiness. i can't promise that things will get better but i can promise change (no things in this world will ever be truly constant) and chances are, there will be some changes for the better.
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

“you know,” harry began carefully, one morning, while the two were getting ready to go on campus for their respective lectures. they’d made a point to accompany each other there, scheduling meetings with professors at the same times, or waiting in the library while the other was attending a lecture. “i’m thinking about really pursuing music.”

“yeah? aren’t you already? majoring in it and everything?” louis responded, despite already having an idea of what harry really meant. he’d been observing the boy for a while; having noticed the anxieties that ate at the saturation of green eyes as time passed, the confusion as to where this degree would really take him, whether he was really benefitting from waiting after uni to decide, what he would even decide on. he would hold harry on the nights where things seemed to overflow, and louis would always insist that it was no problem, that it was never too much. that he would never be too much.

“yeah, but…” harry took a deep breath and set down the comb he’d been running through his hair. “i think i want to start doing something more for my future. i’m not getting any younger. that’s not to say i’m dropping out, or i’m quitting my job. i just want, this is going to sound stupid, but i’ve been speaking to some of my professors about starting up a solo career soon. you know, doing gigs and stuff. nothing big, obviously. just somewhat of a kickstart.”

“i’ll support you every step of the way, haz. no matter what you choose to do,” he said softly, looking up at uncertain green eyes that’d reminded him of spring. the type that healed, not the type that held bad memories in its palms.

“thanks,” the younger boy smiled. “i’ve got some songs written already. there’s one i’d like to show you when it’s done.”

“i’d be delighted.” louis thought back to the verses still laying at the corner of his desk. “can’t wait.”

the library on campus, despite never being a place louis fared, had a pretty good selection of books. some days, it would get quite crowded, especially around exam season. usually, though, it would just be him and a couple others in the corner. it had a high ceiling, two floors, and more windows than he thought should be legal in a single building, vaguely resembling a shopping mall. the windows allowed an ungodly amount of overly dazzling sunlight in, forcing anyone who stepped into squint. it was one of those sunny january afternoons that would fool one to believe it was much warmer than it really was.

like harry, he’d been thinking about what he really was planning to do after uni. in truth, he never imagined himself to be alive for so long. ever since what happened with jean, and moving back to london after two years of thinking he’d be in new york forever, he thought that it was something he’d never come back from. so the future wasn’t something he bothered to preoccupy himself with, ever.

even now, he questioned whether it was really worth it to pursue something more. if he’d be better off rotting in a gas station bathroom convulsing from a morphine overdose. or maybe he’d put himself to rest in a field of flowers, ones that reminded him of everything beautiful in the world, and everything beautiful beyond it. maybe, he thought, it’d even convince him that someone as wretched as he belonged among the flowers.

but he’d found himself the most at home writing, nowadays. he liked to imagine himself as one of the writers he’d so admired—fitzgerald, hemmingway, salinger, dostoevsky. he’d imagine himself weaving dreamcatchers for words in the most literal sense, conveying everything he’d felt in ways that only he knew how to. of course, though, he’d never shown anyone. the pieces graded by professors were all stale assignments for class. dull research papers, argumentative essays, meaningless rhetorical analyses. but what he sought, he presumed, was something of more substance.

he’d decided to pick up a flyer for every pile regarding creative writing seminars he saw, scattered around the english department and pinned on the bulletin boards in the. he didn’t think much of it the first time he collected one, but it’d steadily become a habit, or even something he looked for. progressively, it seemed, publishing freelance work seemed less and less out of reach.

harry’s arms wormed from behind him gently as he was spacing out, flyer in hand. it didn’t startle him as much as it once did; he’d grown better at sensing the boy’s presence. the big, clumsy steps, and the sweet (but not sickeningly so) vanilla scent.

“i’ve seen you keep those things around the house a lot,” harry whispered, fighting an urge to nibble louis’ ear. they weren’t on those terms yet, he reminded himself. “when are you actually going to attend one?”

he sighed. “dunno. not sure if it’ll be a waste of time, you know. not even sure if this is what i want to do.”

“it doesn’t have to be,” harry chuckled warmly. “it’s a seminar, not a wedding.”

the ocean boy hummed. “i guess so. writing is to me as music is to you.”

“if that’s the case, then all the more reason to pursue it.”

“not everyone is harry styles,” he snorted. it came across much more bitter than he’d meant for it to. but harry remained unfazed.

“of course not. in fact, i don’t think anyone is harry styles except for harry styles.” his hair looked almost translucent in the sunlight. “but seriously. you might not be harry styles but you’re louis tomlinson. and that’s even better.”

“oh, shut up. you’re just trying to kiss my ass.”

“can’t resist. i’m being completely honest, though. i think you could make it.”

“thanks, darling,” louis said nonchalantly. “i’ll give it some thought.” harry shifted nervously, expectantly, and the older boy practically felt the questions hanging in the air before him, drilling holes into his skin. “before you ask. i don’t know if writing about personal things is something i’m comfortable with doing as of right now. or for a while, really.”

“i hadn’t said anything yet.”

“you were wanting to.”

“you know me too well, loubear.”

it was nearing february, just two weeks before harry’s birthday. they weren’t able to celebrate louis’, as it was so close to christmas, which they had spent with their families, but the ocean boy just pushed the subject matter aside when it came up. “it was never really celebrated, or remembered,” he would always repeat, “so it’s not a big deal. i got christmas, and that’s always enough.”

it pained harry to think about how little louis mattered to himself. how he spoke like his birth wasn’t something to be celebrated.

“what if,” he proposed, “for my birthday, we celebrate both of ours. we can even go on a trip somewhere. anywhere. japan, Italy, new york.”

“no, it’s quite alright. unless you really want to go. but we’re both really busy at the moment, and it’d be hard to find a good time. besides, winter break is over.” the smaller boy shrunk for a reason harry couldn’t place, but he already didn’t like how louis’ shoulders seemed to cave in on themselves like there was something there about to hurt him. he wasn’t sure whether it was just the uncertainties of travel, but he could sense that something was off. it made him want to drop the idea completely, but also pry even further, testing if he could find what was so frightening, hidden deep beneath the ocean boy’s bones.

“yeah, but i can take time off. so could you. you hardly got any rest during winter break anyway, considering everything.” he slapped himself internally as louis flinched at the reminder of what had happened. and _god,_ he looked so small, so scared, like he was afraid of being punished for taking up too much space, so much so that he’d drawn his very soul inside of itself, compressing it painfully into something incoherent and disjointed. even then, he was beautiful—messy, feathery hair, alarmed blue eyes despite the discomfort swimming in them, soft lips, and delicate curvature of his face. “you, of all people, deserve to let loose a bit.”

“not really. but if you’re asking me to accompany you on a trip to celebrate your birthday, i’ll gladly accept. mine has already passed, after all.”

harry frowned. “but we never got to _really_ celebrate it. you’re always turnings things i want to do for you to make you happy into favors for my gratification.”

“you don’t have to go out of your way to try and make me happy. besides,” he added dryly, “what are you going to do? bake me a cake? treat me to a fucking meal?”

 _it won’t work,_ harry heard louis think. it didn’t have to be said to be conveyed. “i want to make you happy. not to mention slow introduction of food as something celebratory could be beneficial.” he took a deep breath. “and your birthday is something to be celebrated. life is something to be celebrated.”

“not one like mine. i hate that kind of thing anyway.”

“i- whatever. let’s just do it. i’ll find a way to connive something in there for you. we can go somewhere. i’ve always wanted to go to new york city. manhattan. coney island. the land of the free. or maybe not so free, but that’s aside from the point.”

all the remaining light left louis’ eyes, and the younger boy was met by fluttering eyelashes as louis shifted his gaze downwards, self-consciously. “alright,” he whispered, suddenly cagey. unsteady. “i’ll find a time.”

the drive back was excruciating. the cotton candy pink looked upon the two mockingly. it always ended up this way, louis thought. _don’t fight back, don’t fight back, don’t fight back. just endure. endure and things will go more smoothly._

“so,” he choked out, reaching for any resemblance of normalcy, hoping that harry hadn’t caught up to the nausea already rising in his throat. “what did you usually do back at home for your birthday and the sort?”

“mum, gemma, and i would usually just spend it at home. bake a cake or something, have a family night. gemma loves giving gifts, so she’d always surprise me with the weirdest shit. she’s the type of person who would give one ‘joke’ gift and one that’d be really, really thoughtful. as much as i can’t stand her, i love her to death and she’s always been the first person i go to when something’s wrong.”

“that sounds really nice,” louis relaxed a little, soothed by harry’s gentle voice. it reminded him of freshly-washed sheets and soft blankets and warmth amidst a world of ice. “your family seems lovely. no wonder you are the way you are.”

“how about you? what was it like when you were younger?”

harry swore he could physically hear the sound of the boys’ walls shooting upwards. “oh, you know. normal family stuff. similar to you.”

“what does ‘normal family stuff’ constitute?”

“normal family stuff.”

for some reason, though he figured he should have been used to this, the statement made the younger boy irrationally angry. “hmm. so you’re just going to ask me a question and not give me an honest answer when i ask you the same one?”

“oh, i- it’s- it _is_ honest, though, i-“

“whatever. it’s fine. i understand that you need space. just frustrating for me, you know. when i care about you so much but you don’t tell me anything, he spat. “feels unfair, is all.” _you’re a dirty liar, you know that, tomlinson?_ a nasally yet cold voice seemed to say. one that mimicked the same artificial emotion that the violin would weep.

“haz-“

“don’t call me that.” _don’t touch me,_ jean’s voice had now completely devoured his regular train of thought, only growing stronger when he tried to push everything down. _don’t taint me with the likes of you. whore._

louis fell silent, curling in on himself even more than he already had. it didn’t seem possible, but the boy succeeded in making himself smaller. like he could disappear if he tried hard enough, like he was an object to be removed from harry’s sight. “sorry,” he squeaked.

it was dark by the time they’d arrived back at louis’ apartment after what felt like a lifetime of agonizing silence. louis’ skin crawled, aching for punishment. the absence of natural light somehow made everything worse. heavier. so much more difficult to bear. white streetlights reminded him only of those surrounding central park that he used to see as beacons of hope.

“harry,” he spluttered, before he could stop himself. his body recoiled out of habit, a reflex he hadn’t been able to get rid of, even after all this time. “i… i’m sorry.” his eyes squeezed shut, bracing himself. bracing himself for what was once inevitable, and would become inevitable once more. it’s what his presence did to people, after all.

“lou,” harry’s voice was so, so far away; so drowned out by one that was more cynical. cold. cruel. “lou, open your eyes. lou, please. it’s just me.”

_know your place. i’m giving up so much just to be with your sorry ass._

“lou, i’m sorry, oh god, i’m sorry. please. come back to me.” _god, you’re guilt tripping him now?_

_you deserve this._

“you’re safe. we’re here, we’re safe, and it’s just me. just harry.”

_so fucking unworthy, tomlinson. so fucking unworthy._

“babe. please, i’m-“

“just get away from me. please. hit me or leave me the fuck alone.” his eyes were open again, this time filled with hot tears, sclera shot with blood.

“i’m- lou, what? i’m not going to hit you.” harry’s voice was shaking now, too, and it was his fault. again, he was dragging everyone else into his problems and hurting the people that cared.

“i’ll be fine. i just, i just need a shower. let me alone, please.”

“don’t let him do this to you.”

“what do you know?”

“i hear you cry out his name. j-“

“don’t fucking say it.” he started shaking even more violently, as if merely uttering the man’s name would summon him.

“louis, i’m- i’m so sorry for scaring you. please, just. just let me in.”

the world reeled, shaking almost as hard as louis’ narrow shoulders. the ground, the sky, the boy before him. the penthouse, the violin, the closet. matthew, jean, harry. everything he was, everything he is, everything he will never be.

it didn’t matter anymore, he thought. maybe if he ran, harry would run the other direction. maybe if he got far enough, harry would eventually get tired of chasing and give up. he’d leave him alone, like he so wished for. either way, it didn’t matter. it never mattered, he supposed.

he was in the bathroom, ripping the zip-lock bag of blades desperately from the place he’d stashed it behind a stack of toilet paper rolls. _hurt yourself before anyone else can. prove that you are truly in control._ pain isn’t pain, not when you accept it as a part of you, he reminded himself.

he was starting to question, though, if anything belonged to him at all. if the pain he experienced could even be classified as his; that’s how faraway it felt.

how could something be so far away yet so personally tormenting at the same time?

harry was behind him now, holding him, burying his face into the ocean boy’s back. “please,” he sobbed, “please.”

but no, it wasn’t enough, it will never be enough, _you will never be enough._ stop. stop. stopstopstopstopstop.

“loubear, sunflower.” harry’s voice pierced through what felt like thick smoke weighing them both down. “look at me. just focus on me. we’re here, we’re at your apartment. you’re with me, harry styles, the person who loves you the most.”

his breathing slowed slightly, but tears did not stop pouring from his eyes, and he was still clutching the bag of blades like they were his lifeline. “i’m- i’m sorry. i’m sorry, harry, i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry.” there was nothing in his eyes, the younger boy noticed, they were so hollow, so frightening, harry questioned whether they were really there, in that moment, or if it was all just a dream. it shouldn’t be possible for someone to be so terribly unfathomable.

“lou, you have nothing to be sorry for,” harry said, lowering his voice. “i shouldn’t have acted the way i did. i know that you’re trying, love. i know that it takes time.”

“i don’t- i don’t want to guilt you into apologizing after i get irrationally upset. it’s manipulative. so don’t apologize. it was my fault.”

“it wasn’t, though. you did nothing wrong.”

“harry, you’re always apologizing. you deserve a better relationship. a more stable and fulfilling one.”

“what about you? you apologize more than i do. you deserve a stable and fulfilling relationship, too.”

“i don’t know if i’m suited for that kind of thing.”

“you’re as worthy of happiness as everyone else.”

“you, too.”

“you always try to deflect the subject back onto me. but i know that. i know what’s in my best interest. i know my limits and can set my boundaries.” louis stayed silent as minutes passed, unable to speak or to speak up, neither of the boys knew. so harry took a chance, clenching his teeth and readying himself for the worst. “who’s john?”

“jean. spelled j-e-a-n.” the ocean boy closed his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows, bottom lip quivering. the blades were still in his hands, ripping through the plastic so effusively that harry feared that they’d rip through louis’ hands as well. “i dated him for a while. he, he sometimes would- he would hurt me when i screwed up. we lived in new york together for a couple years.”

“a couple _years?_ all while he hurt you?”

“it wasn’t that bad.”

“ _fuck,_ lou! it doesn’t matter how bad _you,_ of all people, say it was. the man could have chained you to a wall and tore your guts out and you’d still say it wasn’t all that bad.”

“it’s a long story.” he replied, looking down, like he was _ashamed_ of what had happened. like it was somehow _his_ fault. the idea made harry’s guts wrench.

“we have all night.”

the ocean boy sighed resignedly, allowing some of the tide to flow back into his eyes. harry readied himself for rejection, to be completely shut out again, so when the louis pursed his lips and met his eyes more firmly than he ever had, he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, bleeding profusely from his heart.

“alright.”


	38. 127, 127, 127

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you are but a summer's day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// past trauma , mentions of self harm , physical and sexual abuse
> 
> hi, just a reminder that even though i'm kinda dumb, none of my rhetorical choices or allusions are random. i choose each word and each reference for a very specific reason. this includes all chapter titles and summaries (summaries only found on ao3). there are a few easter eggs. lmk if you find them. and if you want me to clarify something, dm me or comment :) 
> 
> shit is rough, but it's okay. sorry if this chapter sucks. maybe i didn't make it as long or as profound as i should've. or maybe i should take more time on these. sorry.
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome   
> discord: chae#5529
> 
> also, if you want to get ahold of me, the quickest way is through discord dms! i'm online 24/7. only posting it on this chapter, though.
> 
> -

they first met at a library. he still remembered the warm glow of the dim orange-yellow light bleeding from the walls, above the shelves. louis was eighteen and fresh out of high school, and doing uni halfway across the world from his hometown. he’d stumbled across the beautiful building while on a walk, shaped almost like a courthouse or royal monument. the murals splayed across the ceiling reminded him of life before things had gotten complicated. it was probably one of the few places he’d actually missed from new york.

he was sat at one of the aspen wood tables when a man leaned over him, breath smelling of a strong, numbing mint. “i haven’t seen you around here before.” louis looked up, his eyes met with ones that were such a dark, murky blue that, if he didn’t know better, he’d think were jet black. it reminded him of the deepest, most rich depths of the ocean. he was beautiful, louis thought. he held this confidence in each breath, each stride; this confidence that louis admired especially since he knew it was something he would never personally fathom. “sonnet 94, i see. interesting taste.”

“i guess so. i’m just revisiting them all.”

“my personal favorite is sonnet 60.”

“oh, yeah? quite the dark one, aren’t you?”

“it’s true, though. time is a cruel hand will eventually devour all that exists.” the man smiled amicably while holding out his hand, in complete contrast to what he’d just said. “jean vautour. pronounced john, spelled j-e-a-n. nice to meet you.”

“louis tomlinson.” he cautiously took the man, jean’s, outstretched hand. he’d almost pulled away immediately from how deathly cold it was.

“you seem quite young. and i can tell from your accent that you’re not from here. are you at new york for school?”

“yeah, i’m here for uni on a scholarship,”

“a bright one, i see. if you’d like, i can show you around sometime. i know how daunting it can be to navigate a foreign country.”

“yeah,” louis scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “i appreciate that. it is actually quite scary. makes it easier that i know the language, at least. i’m from doncaster, which is, uh, a little town in northern england.”

“i’m actually quite familiar with england,” he chuckled dryly. louis could have sworn that jean seemed offended or even amused that he even felt the need at all to clarify the location of doncaster, as if he should’ve known that the other would be aware of the town already. or maybe he imagined it, as the chilling tone only seemed to be present for a split second. “do you have any plans tonight? may i start off the tour of manhattan by showing you the best restaurant around?”

“that sounds lovely, but i’m afraid that i’m just a student and don’t have the funds for such a nice meal. thank you for the offer, though.” louis responded, a little taken aback by how forward this man he just met had been.

“my treat.”

so, somehow, louis found himself on the patio of a candlelit establishment with food that was more expensive than louis had ever seen. exquisite dishes he’d never heard of, high-class french cuisine, breathtaking scenery. jean had even ordered red wine, despite the fact that louis couldn’t legally drink in america.

the alcohol, surprisingly, failed to unwind the man at all. he’d maintained his cool demeanor throughout the night, leaving the younger boy to wonder what exactly it was in his bones that’d kept him so grounded. he did learn more about the man, over dinner, however. jean was attending graduate school here, back in his hometown, while he’d done his undergrad in france. he was now twenty four, six years older than louis, having cruised through his education with ease.

there was something that louis felt kindle inside of him; something warm, that told him that this is the healing that he was looking for. how lucky he’d been to capture the attention of someone so elegant. 

jean had invited the younger boy to his apartment after they finished their meal, to which louis declined at first, but had gotten roped into anyway, with the man’s charming eyes and words. he knew exactly what jean wanted—something that he’d already accepted that he would never enjoy again, but maybe this time, he told himself, things would be different.

they weren’t.

their sex was overlooked by stars that seemed to glare with disdain, and he hated every second of it. he was sure from the unsteadiness of his breaths and of his hold that he was shaking, but jean hadn’t said anything, only kept going. it was different from what matthew had done to him when he was a kid; much less gentle, much faster than he was used to.

it was painful—overwhelming in every sense of the word.

he tried to close his eyes and imagine himself lying in a soft bed of grass; somewhere beautiful where he wouldn’t ever have to hurt. behind his eyelids, though, frustratingly enough, seemed to live only the dark closet full of his mother’s old clothes.

 _“you were made for this,”_ jean would tell him, lips dripping with this tempestuous pitch. _“it’s like you were born for this very moment in time.”_

it was what matthew would tell say every time he was brought into that godforsaken room. _you were made for this._

maybe, he thought, it really was all he was good for. all he would amount to. but at the same time, jean would always scold him for being too deadpan during sex. for acting like he was just going through the motions with no feeling. it felt contradictory, but made sense in its own way. he was just an object of no real worth, conceived solely to be used by others.

but that hadn’t stopped him from going back to jean, every single time. outside of sex, the man was nothing but generous and absolutely lovely; someone whose caliber was way above that of louis’. when put next to jean, he paled in comparison, chokingly unremarkable.

they became exclusive after just three dates, all of them followed by the same sex that reminded louis that he really was worth nothing.

jean was like a drug—louis couldn’t get enough of him. when they weren’t fucking, jean would treat him with this kindness that he’d never experienced before. almost as if he was special; something to be treasured.

it was perfect, he thought. or as close to perfect as anything in his life could get, at least.

“won’t you move in with me?” the man asked one morning, after they woke to bright white sunlight spilling into the penthouse from the ceiling-height windows, just five months into their relationship. “i want to see more of you.”

the inquiry made ice shoot through his veins, freezing him to the core. after all, living together would mean more jean, which would mean more sex. but after seeing those dark, dark eyes, thin lips curled into a cunning smile, he couldn’t say no.

he was convinced that jean was the best thing that’d ever happened to him. not just because of his assets, but because he’d never be fortunate enough to find another person who would deem someone as vile as he, worthy of their love. even with jean, he’d thoroughly believed that he wasn’t worth any of the warmth he received.

the first time jean hit him was eight months after they’d met.

louis made a friend—his first friend—in one of his classes, and decided one afternoon to drop by the guy’s flat to play fifa and order pizza. one of the things he’d never really had the chance to enjoy during his time in high school; always shunned as the outcast or pansy gay boy.

he came home to a livid jean, sitting with a book of shakespeare’s sonnets open on the dining table. sonnet 94. his eyes were eyes darker than louis thought was possible for eyes to become, disposition even colder than usual.

“where have you been?” he growled, voice shaking.

“i- i called you, but you didn’t pick up. was at a friend’s place.”

“who?”

“from my- my lit theory class. noah.”

“are you lying? you hesitated. and i’ve never heard you speak of this noah person before.”

“i’m- i’m not. i’m nervous because you seem so angry, and jean, i hate making you angry,” he breathed, voice failing him in the moment. “and he’s never really come up in conversation before.”

“you’d think i would hear about your first friend, seeing as i’m the one who allowed you to become familiar with this city in the first place.”

“i would have gotten on fi-“

a deafening crack, one that resounded so deeply that louis winced at how piercing the sound was. it was a few seconds later, when he felt blood trickle from his nose, when he’d realized that the sound had come from the collision of jean’s palm with his face. “how dare you?” the man growled, reptilic features even more prominent when paired with profound rage. “how dare you speak to me like that?”

“i-“ louis sputtered, cradling his cheek. “you-“

before the younger boy could even react though, a distraught expression came over jean’s features. he stared at his hand, bright red after the impact, as if it were something that no longer belonged to him; something ungodly. “i’m sorry,” he whispered. “oh, louis. you know i didn’t mean that, right? i would never hurt you. i got upset because i love you. everything i do is because i love you.”

the dark blue eyes seemed to assail louis’ pale ones. for a moment, he thought he was paralyzed and feared that he would never move again. a weak “i love you too,” was all that he could choke out.

it was just a week after that incident when it happened again.

they were in bed, and louis did all he knew how to do. close his eyes and take it.

“am i not good enough?” jean asked, “why don’t you act like you enjoy it?”

“i- i do, it’s just. it’s hard. reminds me of… of things i don’t really care to remember.”

“god, of course. i always knew you were a whore. you know what? i don’t even want to hear it. just take it like a good boy and don’t fucking say a word to me.”

a book from the bedside table had come crashing into him, its _cold_ leather cover feeling like sandpaper against his skin. the book had a suffocating cross on its binding, gold ink blinding him with every downward strike. it’d pounded against him like there would be no tomorrow, and he wondered if this really was the way he’d die.

the sex that night was cold. it was always cold, with jean’s cold hands and cold eyes, but it had been exceptionally so after the beating. he felt the man’s tongue trace the back of his neck, his breath seep into his skin and bone, filling him with this indescribable loneliness.

in these times, he would long for matthew. he’d shut everything off and just pray, pray that matthew would return, in place of jean; matthew, who always had the pocket bible on hand. matthew, with his round glasses and long, tied back hair. matthew, who always touched him gently and quietly. matthew, who was the first person who’d taught him how to live like life was something so unbearably fleeting.

he remembered the mornings where he’d take a chair outside and stare at the sun to escape the ringing of the violin.

ever since then, he’d made it a point to overdramatize his reactions to jean inserting himself inside of him. he’d pretend to enjoy it as if it were some god-given gift that washed over him like the sea. he’d imagine himself in places he’d never be, hearing the cruel words grew progressively more and more malicious.

_“i am the only person who will ever love you like this.”_

_“you really_ are _disgusting.”_

_“you deserve this.”_

_“all of this is happening for a reason.”_

_“you are nothing in a world of everything.”_

_“you, you were born for this.”_

“stop, please jut stop,” he sobbed one night, “please just let me go.”

jean’s grip only grew tighter around his wrists, closing in endlessly, leaving dark marks like handcuffs all over his arms. “you don’t fucking say that to me, tomlinson. i gave you everything.”

he then felt light blinding him overhead, making visible all the scars and deformities of his body. the misshapenness, as jean had called it.

suddenly, he was pressed in shape of a cross like the gold ink on the black book that had struck him months earlier, against the windows that he’d loved so much, still naked, the glass sticking to his skin.

“how do you like that? you’re out for everyone to see, like the slut you are. i’m sure that… that priest was it?” jean sneered. “i’m sure that priest would be proud to see you now. all that you are. how do you feel now?” his breath that was usually warm in contrast to the rest of the wintriness of his being was now also wintry. it made the panic that was already wracking his soul convulse even more, screaming through the humiliation, the degradation.

“please-“ he choked, only to be held harder against the glass. louis willed for it to disappear like it had in _harry potter_ , allowing him to plunder to his death. the thought of his body; broken and naked and atrocious in all sense of the word, was cathartic. maybe then, he’d be able to get closer to the salvation he always wished for, but seemed so far away. sola fide, he tried to remind himself. _sola fide._

he still doesn’t remember what had happened after that. maybe jean had fucked him mercilessly, maybe they’d stopped and he spent the night bleeding in the bathroom, maybe he passed out after jean snaked him hands around his throat.

it was stupid, he knew. he was foolish for staying, for allowing it to get to that point at all. it was his fault for not running earlier.

but if he had, there would be nowhere to go. the penthouse was all he had. jean was all he had.

and that wasn’t to say that he was never nice to louis. he’d call all the concertos he’d play his own personal ‘declarations of love’ for the younger boy. declarations that would somehow make up for all the mistreatment that wasn’t really mistreatment; just treatment that louis had deserved.

needless to say, he stopped resisting jean’s power after that night.

it continued until a few days over the two-year mark since the beginning of their relationship. the beatings had increased from once or a month, to once or twice a week, to nearly every night. every night, he’d be the utmost careful as to not set off the man, but he’d find a way to trigger his anger in some way without fail.

it was then, when the pain grew to become something he was actually fond of.

when zayn called in the middle of an argument between the two, and jean had forced him to pick up to see who it was, voice still broken, the bradford boy just about blew a fuse.

“lou, i don’t fucking care, this is all so fucked up,” he’d called again the next day, while louis was on his way to class and out of jean’s sight. “you have to fucking leave.”

“i can’t, mate. you know that. i have nothing,” he choked. “besides- besides. he loves me.”

“you don’t make bruises bloom all over the body of someone you _love,_ louis. open your fucking eyes.”

“he only does it when i fuck up.”

zayn wanted to scream his lungs and throat raw. he wanted them to bleed, as if it’d open louis’ eyes to how _wrong_ this all was. but he couldn’t. “no amount of fucking up could justify this.”

“you don’t understand.”

“you’re right. i don’t. i don’t want to understand what goes through that psychopath’s mind when he does that shit to you.”

“you don’t fucking know me, z. don’t act like you do. if you’re doing this to feel like some kind of hero-“

“i’m not! you’re delusional. you’re delusional, lou! in the kindest way possible, you’re fucking insane. i just want the best for you. and this is sick, you just don’t see that.”

it’d ended when zayn steeled his resolve. he flew to new york with no warning, only texting a time and airport to louis. and there was no way the blue-eyed boy could leave zayn to fend for himself; not in manhattan, not so late at night.

and with only the clothes on his back, they left the country. back to england, where he had come from. no luggage, no money, nothing. no warning. louis, realistically, could have refused, despite everything. he could have called a taxi for zayn, booked a hotel, anything. he could have stayed with jean in new york. in the penthouse.

but for reasons he couldn’t place, he didn’t.

in truth, the return to england felt much more foreign than moving to new york had. the familiar yet unfamiliar accents, the way people carried themselves, the lack of violin, the lack of the penthouse, the lack of jean and the lack of pain. 

he would awake every night to memories of matthew, but mostly memories of jean, and the cold, cold sex that they’d have. it was then, the realized, when he came to terms with the fact that he would never enjoy such a thing again.

he’d tried to get over it, going to bars and finding people to hook up with, but he always got last-minute gold feet, and left with no warning, leaving the confused man or woman to wait for a person that would never return to them.

until harry, that is.

as much as he hadn’t detached himself from the past, it was like he was now on a completely separate timeline than matthew, than jean. like what they had, never happened in the first place.

it was liberating, but lonely, in its own fucked up way.

there were nights he’d cry for jean, for matthew, wishing with every fiber of his being that they’d come whisk him up and take him back. to the penthouse, to the closet. to administer the pain he’d deserved.

no matter what he did—studying or reading or writing or just _breathing—_ he knew that none of it was enough to really escape. so he learned to allow it to become him. to devour him, to define him. it made existing easier to realize how wretched he was, and where he really belonged.

on days he dared to be happy, he forced himself to imagine the weight of the bible crush his bones, telling him about every sin he committed, everything he didn’t deserve. it was ironic, really, the prevalence of religion within the men in his life, when he wasn’t religious at all. his mother had never been, so he hadn’t been either.

maybe, he told himself, if he _had_ believed, then none of this would have happened. though he could never bring himself to.

for now, at least, things had become stagnant, despite the fact that the stagnancy held no warmth or closure. it wasn’t closure he sought, he figured, so it was okay. he’d bathe in the constance that had been gifted to him and accept it all with dignity. maybe he didn’t deserve it, after all this time, but he took it and nurtured it nonetheless.

it was okay, he’d whisper to himself, like a mantra. it was okay. it was okay.


	39. unbeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spring is like a perhaps hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// self harm , mentions of sex , trauma , past abuse 
> 
> hi, i hope this is adequate. man i am so tired. hahahhah. comments mean a lot to me as always, so if you could spare a half second i'd love that. thanks. 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

it took hours to tell harry. about matthew, about jean, about how much he wished to disappear. they ad arrived home at seven, but by the time everything was said, it was already nearing midnight.

louis said he wanted to sit on the cold tile while retelling everything—closer to the earth, to the soil where his body would one day reside in, to the core of the planet into which he would imagine himself plummeting into certain death.

harry cried during almost all of the story, though louis couldn’t quite understand _why._ he wasn’t someone to cry for, or to cry over. it was already established clearly in his mind that he was not worth the green-eyed boy’s tears. 

it was all a bit easier to articulate than he thought it’d be, but his voice still shook almost as hard has his hands, and there were parts where he had to stop to remember to breathe. harry would have to clutch the boy’s arms tightly, serving as a reminder that he was there, in that moment, and not back in the new york penthouse. he’d count to ten, then a hundred, sometimes five hundred. however long it took to calm the smaller boy down.

harry listened intently, heart twisting and turning in his chest; so much that he worried that it would sink and become one with his stomach, which had also been crying out for food—but he didn’t want to interrupt the flow of louis’ storytelling, so he didn’t say anything about it.

it was borderline unbearable just to hear about, he realized, he couldn’t imagine actually _experiencing_ these things. there were moments where he wished he could clasp a hand over the ocean boy’s mouth, stopping all the words that had flowed mercilessly from it. as if, by doing so, he’d be erasing everything that had happened in the first place.

but it wouldn’t, so all he could do was sit on the floor with louis until he could no longer feel the bones in his bottom as they dug into the ground, and listen like he was never going to use his ears again.

when it was all over, louis looked so empty, like each word he’d uttered sucked a sliver of life out of him. he wasn’t crying; he never allowed himself cry unrestrainedly, only trembled like there was nothing else in the world. harry, though, imagining every situation more vividly than he’d like to, couldn’t combat that sobs that washed over him when he realized that these stories, which were just stories to him, were facts that louis had to live with every second of his life, regardless of whether he was awake or not.

“lou,” the younger boy choked out between tears, “lou, i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry for ever having scared you. i’m sorry that these things ever happened at all. i- i wish, i wish i could hunt them down and _hurt_ them.” his eyes seemed to glower red with pure hatred in its most palpable form. “i want to rip them apart for hurting someone like you; someone who deserves _so much better_ than what the world has to offer.”

“jean’s somewhere still, probably. france or Italy or new york, one of those romantic places where the lights never go out at night. maybe he’s even in london,” louis joked weakly. “matthew’s gone, though. he passed last year. i read it in an obituary. ‘priest dies from pancreatic cancer.’ romantic, huh?”

“oh,” he replied dumbly. what was he to say in this situation? apologize? congratulate the boy?

“it’s alright. i was torn up at the time; wanted to be hurt and scared all over again because i deserve it, but it’s fine now. i’m over it.”

“fuck, lou! you didn’t fucking deserve any of that. don’t say that.”

“it’s fine.”

“but it’s fucking not. nobody deserve to be treated like that. especially not you.” he swallowed. now, he, too, was trembling. in anger, in fear, in sadness, in relief. “love, you don’t- you don’t understand how fucking important you are to me.”

“thanks.” the ocean boy smiled a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. they were still dark and murky and harry wondered if that’s how jean’s eyes had looked—so empty and unyielding.

“i’m sorry for scaring you, really. you know i would never hurt you, right?”

 _hurt me,_ louis wanted to scream. _hurt me, hurt me, hurt me._ “yeah.”

when their words started failing them before they reached past their throats, louis excused himself to bed without having eaten, and harry couldn’t really bring himself to stop him. he looked as if the smallest nudge would tip him over; so exhausted and overwhelmed past just bone-deep—it felt like the tiredness stuck onto his soul like a leech.

the green-eyed boy couldn’t sleep that night.

when he’d tried, his mind would just be attacked by images of memories that weren’t even his. of cold eyes and cold hands and cold hearts, ones that told louis that this world was simply not _for_ him. he’d imagine louis before they’d met, crying, bleeding, alone. he’d wondered, if things turned out a bit differently, if there would be a louis lying beside him at all.

when harry felt the boy getting up and warmth leaving his side, he knew exactly where louis was going. and there was something, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, telling him that this was something that happened almost every night, with how methodical louis’ movements were.

but this time, instead of grabbing the boy’s hand before he could leave like he had some time ago, he allowed louis to wander into the bathroom. it was only after he’d heard the click of the lock that he’d hauled himself out of bed as well, quietly tracing louis’ steps.

he positioned himself so that his back was against the door, sliding onto the ground soundlessly. despite louis having shoved a towel under the crack of the door, there were still fragments of light that dripped through. harry made a mental note to switch the bright, white lights out for ones that were much gentler sometime in the future.

a few minutes of uneasy silence had passed when harry heard soft, broken cries from the other side of the door. ones that had seemed so helpless, so _lonely,_ it made the younger boy’s chest constrict just knowing that these painful sounds had escaped from something as tender as that beautiful boy’s lungs.

god was so fucking unfair.

“lou?” he finally mustered shakily. “you in there?”

the crying stopped, and harry wanted to curse himself all over again. he realized then, that louis had never voluntarily cried in front of him. of course, there were times where it came out as a result of having pushed it all down for so long, but it was never voluntary. when harry was around, those walls would shoot right back up and remind them of how fragile life was.

“yeah?” the ocean boy responded, much steadier than what harry had prepared himself for. _so all this time, how often had he been feigning his okayness?_

“will you open the door for me?”

it was much easier to convince louis than he thought it would be; as the lock clicked from behind him. he stood up slowly, trying to pacify the anxieties blossoming in his chest and the memories from the night he’d found the boy bleeding.

and there he was, sat so similarly on the gruesome tile floor like he had that night, with just his boxers and a soft t-shirt on, bleeding. but this time, he stood, allowing the blood to trickle down his thighs.

“what are you _doing_?” harry whispered. _“what are you doing?”_

“what does it look like?”

_“why?”_

“why wouldn’t i be? i haven’t been more than twenty-four hours clean for _months_ , haz.”

“you’re telling me this now?”

“you never asked.”

“you wouldn’t have told me.”

“i am, now.”

harry bit his tongue, suppressing a sob that threatened to spill over again. fuck, he was always crying in front of louis, wasn’t he? “you have to escape this cycle somehow.” he’d almost forgot about the blood that was still flowing from the open wounds, until red droplets fell deafeningly onto the floor. “lou, you- you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“i just, i don’t see why it’s a problem. i know how to control it.”

but _why?_ “that’s not the issue! i don’t think you understand, but what hurts is seeing you hurt so bad that you think you _deserve_ this. that you think that you _deserve to hurt.”_

“hurting is proof that we’re alive, no?”

“unbeing dead isn’t being alive.”

“e.e. cummings. quite the poet you are, styles.”

“don’t try to joke with me now,” harry said slowly, sternly, trying not to let the anger blind the rest of his senses. he couldn’t hurt the boy before him again. not here, not in the bathroom, where reality was so undisguised, so naked. “i’m being serious.”

“i know you are. but trust me, i’m fine. i’ve always been. i promise i won’t let my problems inhibit our everyday lives together. hell, we can even start dating, having sex. i can bury everything like it’s all never happened,” the ocean boy pleaded, words being overtaken by this hysteria that had consumed his every remaining piece of reason. “i don’t fucking _care_ , harry. i don’t care what happens to me anymore. fuck me into oblivion, will you? just tell me that i’m _nothing_. what’s the fucking point? hurt me, please. hurt me.”

“lo-louis, lou, sunshine, what?”

“i know you want it. don’t act like you haven’t thought about it. this is your chance, harry! your chance to fuck my brains out until i can no longer speak or move!” his bleeding, his breathing, his tears, had all sped up; the boy’s existence growing more and more vacant by the second.

“i’m not doing that,” the younger boy breathed, crushing the feelings that worked so hard to claw their way back up, “not like this. if you think that you can scare me away like that, you’re wrong. you’re trying to get me so heated that i hurt you like matthew and jean hurt you in the past. you’re trying to prove to yourself that it’s _you_ , that it’s _your_ fault that things turned out like that. that you corrupt others. but you’re fucking wrong, lou, because none of it is your fault. nothing you can say is going to make me, or anyone in their right mind, commit such atrocities on _anyone._ you’re not the one at fault. they are. you were just unfortunate enough to get in their path.”

“but i didn’t stop th-“ god, he looked so small, so hurt, so _vulnerable._ it made harry want to close his arms around the boy like he had when he was listening to it all replay, so that he’d stop shaking, so that he wouldn’t have to see his broken features anymore, as if that would solve anything.

“you shouldn’t have to be put in that situation in the first place.”

“don’t try to tell me who was right or wrong, styles,” his voice shook with tears now, and if not for the content of what he was saying, you’d think he was pleading for validation. and harry, with all that he had, intended to give the boy every shred of validation he was so sure that he desired. “you weren’t there, you don’t know me, you don’t know who i am, you don’t know what i deserve.”

“it doesn’t fucking matter! you haven’t done anything wrong! all you’ve done is breathe and exist. no one deserves that kind of pain, no matter what they’ve done.” he paused to gather himself. “what would you say if it were me and not you?”

“but it’s me, and not you. so you can’t use that example because this is different. me breathing and existing is different from you breathing and existing. or anyone else, for that matter. if you know everything, what the fuck am i to do? because it’s all already happened and i can’t sleep through a single night without wanting to die all over again. without feeling my body pressed against that same glass on the twentieth floor of that same building, hoping with everything i have that god will somehow take mercy upon me and allow my body to fall.

“and now i’m taking all my pent up anger and frustration out on you, the best thing that has ever happened to me. here i am, shouting at a person whom i want to love, a person whose love i don’t deserve, a person who is my greatest and only chance of ever learning to trust _anyone_ ever again. and now you’re going to leave.”

the ocean boy’s lips were coated with saliva; he was nearly screaming so hard he knew he would probably throw up if he had eaten anything earlier that day. his throat had gone raw, cheeks red despite the eerie paleness of the rest of his body. he was still shaking—from blood loss, hunger, or anxiety, he didn’t know—and harry worried, that at any moment, he would lapse into the ground, and become one with the tile floor once again.

“lou,” he said, much more delicately than he had originally planned to, “i’m… i’m not going to leave. you’re right, things have been hard. and you’ve hurt me before. but that’s nothing, nothing at all compared to the gravity of what i feel for you. and how much i believe in you.” _deep breaths. don’t let your voice fail you, not now._ “sit, love. let me clean you up. please. lou, you’re shaking too hard. you have to eat.”

“you’re not going to be happy if all you do in a relationship is take care of the other person.”

“that’s why you have to try.”

“what if i can’t do it? or if i don’t want to?”

“you can. and you will.”

louis sat himself down onto the floor with a sickeningly _crack,_ one that suggested that the boy had less mass than he claimed he did. “i might never enjoy sex, you know? i’m never going to give you what you need.”

“i’m not some sort of sex fiend, love. besides, i’ve got my hand,” he attempted at a joke, but his voice was far too exhausted to convey any humor at all.

“it won’t be enough after a while.”

“then i’ll figure it out. you just have to worry about your own happiness, and i worry about mine.”

“only,” the older boy’s resolve to push harry out splintered even further. please don’t accept this, he tried to tell himself. please don’t be so selfish. “only if you promise to leave, for both your sake and mine, if i begin to taint you with my dirtiness.”

“if it makes you feel better to hear me say that, i will. but i won’t be leaving anytime soon. not even if you wanted me to.”

louis remained silent, so harry only bent down after grabbing the rag off the counter, to mop up the blood that had made a sticky trail down louis’ thighs. it’d began clotting already, leaving gelatinous clumps behind.

“you need to start eating more, lou,” he muttered, feeling the boniness of the boy’s thighs as they shook beneath the rag. “fuck, you’ve lost so much blood.”

“it looks worse than it is.”

“will you consider…” he closed his eyes. “will you consider going to a therapist? just once or twice? if you don’t like it, or if it’s uncomfortable, we can reconsider. but please, lou. please. or a psychiatrist. someone who can actually provide you the help you need, whether it’s counseling, or medication, or whatever.”

the idea made him remember his time at the hospital with dr. demarest. how suffocating that had been. “no. it’s a waste of money. and i rather feel pain than nothing at all, like i said. those pills stifle every aspect of life, i know.”

“please, lou. for me. just _try._ ”

“i’ll think about it.”

“we can still go on the vacation. just not new york, if you’re not comfortable.”

“thanks.”

“sorry, i…” harry trailed off, wondering whether if this was really the time. now or never, he decided. “so what does this mean? are we… are we dating now?”

“whatever you’d like to call it, i’m fine with. i’ve lost all inhibitions, harry, from the moment i told you that you could fuck my brains out and i wouldn’t care. do whatever you want.” louis said, even more lifelessly than before. harry wondered if the the ocean boy had bled light, rather than blood; if it had slowly trickled out of him, dripping bits of his soul onto the floor.

“what do _you_ want, though?”

“doesn’t matter.”

“it does. what makes you say that?” he asked, frowning.

“since when has what i’ve wanted ever mattered?”

“not too late to start, is it?”

“little bit,” the smaller boy responded, pouting, with the slight glint he’d always had returning to his eyes. the very sight made harry want to break down all over again.

“so? what do you say?”

“what good does putting a name on what we have do?”

“we don’t have to. i don’t want it to feel like we’re rushing into things. i was just curious, since we were talking about relationships earlier.”

louis sighed, completely and utterly defeated. engulfed by the warm blanket of the same starless london sky that was surely watching over them now, like it had the first night they’d met. “i’ll give it a try.”

if in that very moment, harry thought, his heart were to explode, he wouldn’t mind. so he just prayed that this wasn’t a dream.


	40. time thickened in his veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luis camnitzer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// trauma , mentions of past abuse , eating disorder thoughts , depression 
> 
> i feel like this chapter is kind of bad and disjointed. took some oxycontin and i feel realllyyyy good like holy fucking shit so hopefully i get some words out for next chapter. god i'm so depressed hahahaahahha. okay but don't do what i do because it's bad and reckless. dm me if you need anything
> 
> hope you enjoy! i'm sorry if this is bad. i really wanted to write about art and pretty things and new york. i'm trying to figure out where i'm going with this. prob won't wrap up thaat soon but it's over 2/3 of the way there, i'll tell you that. thank you guys so so so so much for the comments. 
> 
> thank you diaryofashydreamer for the nice comments!
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

somehow, louis was convinced to go see a psychiatrist.

he didn’t know how it happened; it just did, so quickly and casually, that if he hadn’t been listening so closely, he wouldn’t have caught that the boy agreed to it.

harry wasn’t sure whether louis’ acceptance of the idea had been sheer nonchalance that would be followed by a thick layer a regret, or if he really did have some sort of conscience eating at him, telling him that recovery is worth it. he hoped it was the latter.

but regardless of whatever greater force had driven the boy to this decision, he was grateful.

louis, of course, refused to truly uncoil his feelings in front of a stranger, though, so the best harry could hope for was a miracle prescription—one that would make breathing a bit easier for louis, like the ones he had been given in his early teenage years, when anne’s hunch had been correct about there being another force motivating his shortness of breath that was completely unrelated to his asthma.

the appointment was much more brief and much less personal than the two boys had expected. harry, of course, had accompanied the ocean boy as he had with everything else in their lives—ever since they had gotten close just less than six months ago, they’d practically been joined at the hip.

50 mg prozac.

it was fucked up, because there were so many better ways to die, but as soon as was told the name of the drug, louis had googled how much it would take for it to be a lethal dose. it was far too much and far too ineffective.

curse medical breakthroughs, he thought, curse them for making SSRIs so safe.

the second thing he googled was if there was any link between prozac and weight gain. of course, he had been eating more now under harry’s constant supervision, but he had, in the end, still a great amount of control over what he’d ingested. and he wasn’t about to allow a pill to ruin all that.

despite saying what he had before, he’d always thought that the dreariness of life on antidepressants were exaggerated, or even something in just movies.

they weren’t.

a pregnant week of monotony and drowsiness had come and gone before he started noticing even the slightest difference in his mood. it could be called nothing but that, though; a difference. not a positive or negative one, at least not how he saw it.

what was better in this case? feeling so much pain at once that it’d constrict his ribs and lungs so that even choking wasn’t an option, or being in this constant state of burnout despite not having done anything at all? which feeling would he consider more poignant?

he‘d wondered if _this_ is what depression was supposed to feel like; if he’d been faking it all this time, and was now experiencing the repercussions of lying to so many people. to everyone from his first hospital visit, to dr. reid, to his new psychiatrist whose name he could never remember, to harry. he’d wondered if all of his past experiences, his pain, his fear, had not actually belonged to him like he’d thought it had, and in actuality was just something he’d projected onto himself. he’d wondered, if trying was the right play, after all.

harry’s birthday was steadily getting closer, approaching in just four days, leaving them only two days to decide whether or not they were to go on a trip.

“i think it’s a good chance to get away from things,” the younger boy told him, “but i don’t want to overwhelm you. a lot’s been going on recently.”

“it’s up to you, seriously. it’s your birthday, after all. it’s only fair that you choose.”

“we’re celebrating your birthday, too, remember?” harry whined. “you’re important, lou.”

“that’s not the problem, hazza,” he laughed, as genuinely as he could with just a single prick of doubt, “mine’s already passed. i celebrated with my family just fine.”

“but you didn’t get to spend it with your _boyfriend._ ” harry had been throwing that word out at every chance that he saw, wanted to jump with joy with the knowledge that louis was officially _his_ now, as it hadn’t sunk in yet, despite the fact that a week had already passed.

“next year, maybe,” he said, without truly believing the words that had tumbled past his lips. _would_ harry still be there, this time next year?

“that’s true; there is always a next time. but let me do something for you, please? as a special reward for me,” he whined.

“well, if you phrase it that way…” louis sighed. “alright. do you want to go somewhere further? america?” he remembered how harry’s face lit up at the talk of hot dogs and broadway and lady liberty, and willed himself to not shrink visibly, despite wanting to curl up with everything he had. “new york?”

this took the younger boy aback, paining him to see louis be so unsure of himself yet still putting everything and everyone else before himself, like he always had. “oh. no. no, lou, no. not unless you’re ready.”

“i’m willing to revisit things. besides, it could provide some closure. would it have been the first place you’d want to go if i never told you about jean?”

“yes, but-“

“then it’s settled,” he whispered. “i promise i’ll be fine. i’m not selfish enough to make you take care of me when we’re there to celebrate your birthday.”

“that- that’s not what i was concerned about,” harry glanced worriedly at the smaller boy. it was true, though; he’d always dreamed of romantic excursions with the person he loved in bustling new york nightlife, light from shops and people and billboards dancing across the streets, historic landmarks, harsh accents, shitty pizza. there was something romantic about new york, he thought, even compared to the most well-known landmarks. new york held a special place in his heart; a place above LA or boston or japan. “i just don’t want to make you remember things that you’d rather forget.”

“if i could forget them, i would have already, haz.” he chuckled dryly, thinking back to the times he’d tortured himself by playing the scenes again and again in his head, trying to make them so familiar that they’d seem far off. distant. it never worked, though. each replay would just be more painful than the last. “don’t worry about it. let’s go. i insist.”

and so they’d gone.

their flight was two days before harry’s birthday. seven hours of pure, unlacquered anxiety brewing in both boys’ stomachs. louis was on his third cup of coffee and he hadn’t taken his antidepressants ever since the two of them had the conversation about going to new york.

being next to each other, it was beautiful, really, he thought. but also undeniably terrifying; the way that they moved, always under the impression that the other would also be there, the way that they coincided within each other, the way that their hands fit together like magnets stronger than the gravity of the earth—stronger than any other force that louis had ever known.

but as soon as the flight took off, he was not there; and it was not harry beside him, but zayn.

the last time he was on a plane was the night he decided to leave jean. or maybe it couldn’t quite be called a decision as he was practically dragged out of the country, only complying as a result of the cement in his bones.

zayn didn’t know about matthew; he knew only what louis told him that night when he’d called, what his body telegrammed. it wasn’t a planned departure by any means—he’d went to new york to really check on louis, after first hearing his broken voice. it was more than just disconcerting, really. louis had always been the strong one between the two, the one who’d always jump to his rescue during high school when both of them were being bullied, the one who took the beatings with a stone-cold expression that made zayn wonder how it was that the pain had affected him so little.

so when he saw louis in person again for the first time in two years, and it was so painfully clear that he was beyond broken, that there was more happening than just bruises, he dragged the boy home with no questions asked. he expected to receive more fight than he had, though at the same time he wasn’t surprised, with how drained the older boy seemed.

but louis didn’t cry, not until he was sure that he was alone. it was like a switch flipped within him, that because he was in zayn’s presence, he was no longer allowed to show hurt or fear. so they’d spent the seven hours on the way to a place louis no longer accepted as home in deafening silence.

he and harry spent their plane ride in silence as well, albeit a different kind. one that was soft and gentle, serving as a reminder of what they’d shared under the starless sky on the first night they met. a few drinks, and neither would be able to tell the difference between then and now.

they communicated wordlessly. with just touches and hums and fluttering eyelashes. during the last hour of the flight, louis had hardened his grip in harry’s hand, conveying to the younger boy that the moment was coming at last, that he was prepared to face his once-truths (the shakiness of his touch had also conveyed, though accidentally, that this readiness was partially a lie).

it was magical, harry thought when they’d arrived. as soon as their feet crossed the line between the plane and the airport, he could already hear people’s loud, bold laughs, american accents, and unashamed individuality. this is whom he’d always wished he was, he realized.

while he looked like a child who’d just arrived at disney world for the first time, things were much less glamorous for the ocean boy. when harry broke out of his trance, he noticed louis shaking like the ground beneath him was trembling as if it were the end of the world. and maybe it had been, but he was simply too far gone to notice. it was the familiarity of the airport, filled with memories that he didn’t even know he had, that made everything rush back into him at an unmatchable speed.

maybe it was the airport smell, or the dizziness that instilled in him as he was surrounded by busy, important-looking people in suitcases, or the realization that everyone had their own lives, but again, he felt so irreparably small.

the memories had more to do with his life before jean, if anything, but still made his throat close up in the same way. he’d subconsciously sectioned his time on earth into two; life before jean, and life after. it made things so much worse; the fact that it’d _defined_ him so, just when he thought that he’d escaped his hometown’s stifling atmosphere. when he’d first arrived, he’d been so excited, so optimistic, under the impression that he was no longer caged in this mold that matthew had made for him, that the man was an ocean away.

if he could go back to that very moment of liberation, he would. even if it meant losing everything else he had. it wasn’t much, anyway, he thought. it was rattling, but he really just wanted to feel free again. he wanted to forget the words that had been so menacingly whispered into his ear as he was being penetrated:

_“there is nothing more lonely than freedom.”_

it was less destructive, he felt, than some of the other things jean had told him, but nevertheless was a shackle that chained him to the ground. and who would he be without those shackles? they were what allowed him refuge when things got bad again. the same, familiar pain he’d felt before. maybe that pain was exactly what he needed. maybe, he thought, it really _was_ what he was made for.

the ocean boy felt a hand grab his own, firmly, but gently; careful to not hurt him. it was so warm, so anchoring, that he felt his feet plant back into the ground.

“i’ve got you, lou. there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

those words, despite being so simple, had been so reassuring. he couldn’t quite explain what it was about harry that’d been so safe, because harry _wasn’t_ safe; he _shouldn’t_ be safe. safeness wasn’t a feeling that he was allowed to experience.

they went straight the hotel they’d booked, taking a taxi. the driver had a podcast playing softly in the background, so louis decided that it would be easier for him to immerse himself into the words.

“trillions of particles from space fly into earth’s atmosphere every day,” said the voice of an older american man, “but they grow smaller and smaller as the force of the air shatters them. for something to actually hit the ground, even a piece as small as the size of a pebble, it would have to start almost unimaginably large. but despite that, even the smallest bit of debris shooting through the sky can be seen by the naked eye. they glint and leave trails and are what most call ‘shooting stars.’ they’re not stars, but at the same time, it wouldn’t be a complete lie to say we are all surrounded by stardust.”

it was harry’s voice, once again, that had jolted him out of his stupor.

“we’re here, love.”

their hotel was a tall, modern building, one less grand than what jean’s apartment had been all those years ago, but resembled it nonetheless. harry had even went out of his way to find a place that would be the easiest for louis to digest, but most all of the affordable hotels looked the same; tens of stories tall and reminiscent what haunted louis from two years ago.

but unlike then, they chose a room on the third floor facing away from the sun.

the first place they went to sightsee was the museum of modern art. the two boys strolled wordlessly through what seemed like endless stretches of white walls behind a plethora of photography, sketches, paintings, sculptures, even words—louis had never been very knowledgeable on the visual arts, but watching harry’s face light up in curiosity, was enough for him. this was a world he didn’t understand, he realized, an entire portion of harry’s world he hadn’t indulged in yet.

it was almost dreamlike; as if time had stopped when they entered, and all they had was each other. it was quiet—the only sound that rang against the glossy floors and dull walls was the light padding of shoes striking marble. only a few other people were there; a man holding a leather hat, a woman in a suit, a couple with a canyon of distance between them 

the first thing that caught his eye was a series of photoetchings with handwritten captions by a uruguayan artist. hands nailed to walls, fragmented cups that would never fill, fingers coiled by wires, hands punctured by metal. they told a vivid story, one of pain and self-torment. of captivation. _time thickened in his veins,_ it read. _he couldn’t feel what he saw, nor could he see what he felt._

how fragile, life can be. how potently, suffering can reside in someone.

the series made him want to cry in a way that art has never affected him before. and he understood, suddenly, that he was here, in this moment, with his _boyfriend,_ seeing all these things he never saw before. learning things about harry’s world he’d been too blind to look for. so blind of him, it’d been, to have focused so much on his own pain.

so he squeezed the younger boy’s hand more tightly than he ever had; not because he feared that he would lose harry, but because he wanted to convey to harry, how important he was.

the green-eyed boy glanced over at him with this knowing look that made louis worry for a second that his flesh had turned transparent, that harry could see through everything that he was. but then, he smiled, and everything was alright again. well, it wasn’t, but it would be.

maybe, he hoped, this trip would be more than just enduring the pain and forgetting the memories. maybe it could be overwriting the bitterness that he’d associated with new york since life after jean, and replace it with _harryharryharry._ or maybe he’d find solace in things he never thought he’d find solace in again.

“thank you,” he breathed, almost startled by how his voice resonated in the silence that he expected to be much more asphyxiating than it had been, “thank you for not giving up on me.”


	41. with thy sweet fingers,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to kiss the tender inward of thy hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of recreational drug usage , mentions of self harm , eating disorder behaviors , trauma 
> 
> i'd just like to add if something happens and i'm for some reason unable to finish this fic (it'll be done in the next month or two, but i'm saying this just in case because i've been thinking more seriously than ever), i'd really like for it to be completed. whoever does can take credit as well if they want. 
> 
> stay safe, i love you. getting messages about this fic makes me really glad that i started writing. dms are always open. 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

the worst thing about walking the streets of manhattan was living in the constant fear that he’d stumble across jean again. a terrifying thought, really, but at the same time, he wondered what it would be like to meet him again, to see those reptilic features in a place past just his dreams. had he changed? did he have a partner? had he grown his hair out? would louis feel the same tugging feeling he’d always feel when they were together, begging for pain?

he would see jean’s face and physique in strangers, and feel his heart drop instantly, only for the man’s features to fade as more of the stranger is revealed, reminding him that he was safe.

it was the day before harry’s birthday. they were walking down a street on their way to a nearby café when louis’ mind was struck by a sudden, intense wave of anxiety. he shook; from what, he didn’t know. everything seemed to shift beneath him, like he’d been standing on aone of earth’s faults. everything was too loud, too overwhelming, too bright, too _suffocating._ the smell of people and exhaust that he once loved had been reborn, this time much harsher and much more ruthless. it was imperative, he felt, for him to leave right now. to run as far away as possible and never come back. to choose somewhere beautiful to rest, to finally disappear.

they were at an intersection and the light had just turned green, but his feet were rooted deeply into the concrete.

“lou? what’s wrong?” the younger boy asked worriedly.

 _jean was beside louis again, hand slinking around the small of his back. “i love you so much,”_ _he told louis, “what we have, is really everything.”_

he once considered that day to be the best he’d ever lived. it was him and jean’s fourth or fifth date. the day that he became fully convinced that jean was going to be his _forever._

jean had gotten him a promise ring that morning, given it to him right before their date. it was extravagant, almost like a proposal. he’d gotten on one knee and louis felt loved like never before.

“lou? do you need to go to the bathroom? what’s wrong?” harry grabbed the ocean boy’s shoulder, which proved to be a mistake, because he pulled away so violently that he stumbled backward into an irritated looking young man.

there were beads of sweat forming on louis’ forehead despite the bite the end-of-january air. “i…” he struggled to focus his eyes with everything seeming like it was crumbling. “i’m alright.” the light was red by now, and they were still in the middle of a dense pack of people of all types trying to get past them impatiently.

harry was careful to make his movements slow and telegraphed, only touching the boy when necessary, and extremely gently and fleetingly, as if the touches were never there in the first place. “c’mon, boo. let’s get you somewhere less stimulating,” he whispered.

“it’s-“ he let go of a shallow breath he didn’t even notice until then that he’d been holding. “it’s fine. just need to take a break. we can keep going.”

“are you sure? i really don’t mind at all, i promise.”

“yes. don’t worry, harry. this is supposed to be enjoyable for you. i can handle myself. just tripped a bit, is all.”

“okay,” the curly-haired boy said skeptically.

so they trekked on, holding onto each other for steadiness. the café wasn’t far off; just a few minutes by foot from the intersection at which louis had nearly collapsed.

it was a soft place with a rustic feel amidst effervescent city life. a good change of pace, they agreed. they served foods that had this trendy, urbaneness about them. harry ordered a coffee that seemed to be more sugar than actual coffee, like he always had, as well as a bagel with lox and cream cheese. he didn’t really know exactly what lox was, but the way the café advertised it made it seem appealing enough. louis, on the other hand, got only black coffee and a salad with no dressing (the no dressing part was emphasized in his order), to which harry furrowed his eyebrows worriedly at, but couldn’t bring himself to retort.

and god, it’s a full-on relapse at this point, the younger boy realized, and he hadn’t been doing anything about it. things were going so well until new year’s, and since then nothing had been the same. it makes sense, of course, but it just made the entire situation worse, and it was unbearable to watch the boy go down the same path—a one-way ticket for a trip back to the hospital.

everything he’d tried felt like a step forward and two steps back. louis would open up, then push down his needs until he keels over, open up again, and collapse again.

“you know,” louis began, pushing his salad from one side of the bowl to the other without actually bringing anything to his mouth. it made harry remember how things were when they’d first met, and he wanted to cry all over again. “maybe we should go to the library.”

“oh,” harry responded carefully, unsure of whether louis was referring to what he was thinking. “you mean…?”

“yeah. the new york public library. where i met him. it’s beautiful, you know. i think you’d like it.”

“i’m flattered that you’re thinking about what i like, but i really- i really don’t think we should put you through that, if we don’t have to.”

“it’s fine. i’m over it, it’s been so long already.” louis cursed his voice for shaking, for betraying him.

“it’s been two years, lou. for trauma, unprocessed trauma at that, two years is nothing.”

“firstly, it’s not trauma, and secondly, maybe this is the chance to process it. whatever it is that you’re referring to.”

“you know exactly what i’m talking about,” harry wanted to scream; at louis, at jean, at the world, at the café for being so damn peaceful when nothing is peaceful, not when louis had gone through so much pain and he hadn’t been there all those years ago. hadn’t been able to prevent anything. “it sounds like beautiful when you put it like that, but you’re just going to feel everything rushing back at you and you’ll be back at where you were two years ago again.”

“harry, i _have_ to. we’re here already. this is a part of myself i want to show you. the library is beautiful, too. so beautiful. you would love it,” he exhaled. “unless you- unless you don’t want to. which i’m fine with. don’t want to force you to do anything.”

harry threw his heads into his hands and groaned. “that’s not it, louis. i’m just worried about you. you’re not eating, you’re cutting yourself to shreds on the daily, you have these inexplicable, out-of-nowhere flashbacks, you toss and turn and sweat buckets at night; what am i to do? what am i to say?” he was crying again, they were at a café, in public, on their vacation, a day before harry’s birthday, and louis just and the boy he loved cry _again._ what kind of boyfriend was he?

“i’m, i’m sorry.” he wilted considerably. “let’s go elsewhere. there are a lot of places to see.”

“no- no, that’s not what i meant, love. if you’re serious about going to that library, then we will. it’s not like i have anything against it—it’s your trauma, not mine. just wanted to make sure weren’t trying to set yourself up for failure.”

louis rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, smirking mischievously in attempted to calm things down just slightly. it’d worked. “and why would i ever do that, hm?”

“oh, shut up. you’re such a dunce.”

“you love me though?”

“unfortunately,” the younger boy shook his head. quickly swiping up the stray tears that’d escaped his eyes. “but seriously. you’ve come so far, and i’m so proud of you.”

“stop with the sappy shit.”

“it’s true, though.”

he was about to retort when he stopped himself. “yeah. yeah, i guess.”

harry smiled fondly at the boy, wanting to melt. this was one of the many things that would have started a huge argument just a couple of months ago, but here they were, surrounded by yellow light, dark wood, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, laughing. and it was alright, it really was.

by the time they were ready to leave, harry’s plate was empty and the ocean boy’s remained full. the sight of louis returning to old habits left a pang in harry’s chest.

“let’s get going,” louis said, dumping the contents of his plate into the garbage bin, causing the younger boy to wince. “feels like i’m about to give you a piece of myself. it was my comfort place when i studied here.”

it started snowing on their walk to the bus stop; heavy white flakes dusted the city, giving everything this characteristic shine. louis’ narrow shoulders shook so violently in the cold that harry worried that the trembling would eat away at all the boy’s remaining energy; the energy he couldn’t spare if his organs were to continue working, his heart to continue beating. his lips started becoming the same color of his eyes, and for a split second, harry couldn’t stop himself from thinking that it was beautiful—his ocean boy was truly an ocean boy— _blueblueblue._

to his relief, the blue left louis’ lips as they arrived at the library, overcome by warm air and warm lights. louis was right; it really _was_ beautiful. a high ceiling with a mural of the sky, long stretches of windows that allowed natural light in, tall shelves lining the walls so thoroughly.

rather than panic, it was melancholy that had taken hold of louis’ features. as if he wasn’t deflated enough already after lunch, it seemed that even more light had left his body—harry couldn’t tell if he would prefer louis in this state, so lifeless and doll-like, or in his usual state of panic, too fast and too nauseating.

his eyes wouldn’t lose the glossy shine even as harry repeated his name so loudly that people looked over and scowled at them.

“lou? lou, please. let’s find a good book to read, we can look around, alright? show me what you used to spend your time doing. i’m here with you, okay? i won’t let you get hurt.”

the ocean boy blinked, “oh. yeah. erm, sorry. yeah. i-“ and he was vacant, so vacant. this is living proof, harry thought, that despite everything that it seemed, even the sun might be hollow in its endeavors.

“hey, it’s alright. take your time. i’m here for you, though.”

“i’ll be okay. just give me some space, you can look around. i’ll find you in a little bit. need some room to breathe, is all.”

harry couldn’t refuse, not when louis had asked him so solemnly. he hated that about himself; he was so blinded by love that he couldn’t bring himself to do what he logically knew was best for louis. it was appeasement at its finest; he might as well be named neville chamberlain, he thought bitterly.

louis was sat at one of the long tables, fingers rubbing against the glossy wood like he was soothing it. the empty expression hadn’t left, and it’d been almost comical, how distant he was. harry didn’t realize, until then, how someone could be at arms’ reach, yet still just far enough to slip between his fingers every time. it was terrifying.

he’d come across the ‘s’ authors in the library. salinger. he’d been born in this very town a century earlier, writing about war. it was less than a decade earlier that he passed, which harry, for some reason, was blown away by. he lived for nearly a century, wrote vivid accounts about war and post-war life, and was now considered one of the most renown authors in history. it’d be amazing, he thought, for himself to make that kind of impact. louis, without a doubt, would.

his favorite work by salinger, by far, was _for esme—with love and squalor_ , a short story in _nine stories,_ a collection of stories revolving around post-war america. despite his limited experience and understanding of such topics, he enjoyed pondering them. X, a veteran affected deeply by the horrors of war, was so dismissed and misunderstood by his family and everyone he’d trusted. only esme, a thirteen-year-old girl, ended up truly digesting the difficulties that came with having watched such atrocities that were committed.

she gave him her father’s wristwatch, which served as a beacon of hope even when he couldn’t remember where it was from. but he’d always see it feel this warmth growing inside of him when he’d see it. harry hoped that he could be esme to louis, as well. maybe he should buy louis something he could carry around forever. a watch, maybe. or a chain. or a ring.

louis was exactly where harry had left him, even after he finished rereading the short story. he still looked glazed, but significantly less so—disoriented, if nothing else.

“want to look around with me?” harry attempted. louis looked up, which had startled the younger boy, his eyes were much clearer than they were before. penetrating, almost. this was the blue that he’d fallen in love with, he thought. “i- uh, it’d be a waste to not walk around, no?”

“y-yeah. yeah, let’s go.”

they proceeded, walking further way from each other than they ever had. the stiffness made harry want to grab the boy and shake all of it out of him. like shaking him would bring him back to life.

they were back next to the ‘s’ section of the library. louis stopped at shakespeare, gaze falling on the book of sonnets. harry wondered whether it was the same book that he held that day two years earlier, when jean had first approached him.

“want to get high.” the ocean boy whispered, almost inaudibly, and harry wondered if he’d imagined it.

_“what?”_

“it’s actually a lot easier to get your hands on here, than it is in london, at least,” he sighed. “i used to do some soft stuff when i lived around here.”

harry thought back to the syringe, spoon, lighter, and white powder he’d found along with the razors back in that cupboard. “you don’t do it anymore?”

“nah. i was never addicted, just used every once in a while. it just makes things feel a bit emptier than they usually do, but in a good way, you know?”

“empty in a good way?” harry inquired. “i’ve never thought about it like that.”

“you’ve done…?”

“hasn’t every student? the only variance, really, is how much and how often someone ends up using.”

“i guess so.” he let out a lofty breath. “just being here reminds me of all the times i tried to escape being around jean by going to the library and getting high out of my mind. miserable, but worked out.”

“you won’t have to do that anymore.”

“yeah,” the smaller boy said. “yeah.”

it felt like something had lifted from the air; the murky sadness had suddenly evaporated into nothingness. snow still fell heavily outside. it created this homely feeling among the two boys and the rest of the people in the library, whom all seemed to have grown aware of the blanket of warmth about to cover everything harsh.

harry’s hand was in his, louis suddenly realized (when did that happen?), and everything had felt safe in a way he’d never known before.

“we,” harry interrupted the ocean boy’s thoughts. “we should get high together sometime. you know, stay safe and everything, but just like trip a bit, you know? maybe we’ll learn something about each other.”

“what, and spill the same philosophical bullshit we did the first night?” louis laughed.

“you loved it, and i know this for a fact.”

“oh, shut up.” louis looked up at him so angelically, pain and fear draining from his face like the stopper had been pulled, replaced by consolation. “are you familiar with sonnet 128?” the younger boy shook his head. “you should read it sometime. it’s how i feel about you.”

“lou,” harry breathed, pressing his lips to the boy’s forehead, “you are so, so brave.”


	42. after ovid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> metamorphosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of self harm , tools , eating disorder , mentions of suicide
> 
> hi, it's me again. thank you for all the nice comments last time. i'm alright, though. anyway, i feel a bit iffy about this chapter; i hope it's adequate. anyway, i've been thinking about new story ideas in case i want to keep writing after i wrap this one up. obviously, there is still some time before that comes, but i like to think ahead. that is, if i'm able to. 
> 
> i hope my writing doesn't sound too sickeningly grandiose for no real reason. i worry that it sounds too much or too unrealistic or too edgy. not sure. i guess that's mostly who i am, though. 
> 
> thank you for staying so long. as always, my dms are open.  
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

the rest of the trip was significantly easier.

before he knew it, harry’s birthday had passed and it was time for their flight back to london. they’d celebrated at coney island, with all its light-up tourist attractions and cotton candy that tasted like what harry imagined sunsets to taste like. the younger boy kept trying to prompt louis to eat the cotton candy, the funnel cake, the soft pretzels; everything that amusement parks were known for, but he hadn’t succeeded. _“live a little,”_ he told him, to which it took all louis had to not respond that he didn’t want to live at all.

it was beautiful, though, despite everything. when they rode the ferris wheel, it felt like time had stopped. normally, the world would spin so quickly beneath louis’ feet to the point he’d feel like not even his breaths could keep up, but at that moment, when they reached the top, everything stood still. it was like all that remained was the sound of the ocean and harry’s eyes.

there was, realistically, no way that the rise and fall of the tide could be heard from the inside the ferris wheel, but louis swore he could hear it anyway. it was either that, or the fast thrumming of his heartbeat as harry had leaned in and closed his eyes.

as if the universe itself was acknowledging it to be a special day, the sun had been shining extra brightly and warmly as they strolled hand in hand on the boardwalk; something louis normally refused to do, but because it was the harry’s birthday and because he looked so _goddamn hot_ that day, he complied, even allowing the boy to not-so-subtly slide their entangled hands into his pocket.

harry couldn’t help but cry when they’d returned to their hotel room, and found that louis left a card, a rose (where the fuck had he been keeping the rose?), and an expensive-looking necklace on his pillow while he’d been showering. it had a gold chain and a tiny pendant with ‘ _home’_ written in what he recognized to be louis’ handwriting. just the image of him carefully tracing the word when making the order made him think he was going to melt. he looked over incredulously at the boy, whose ears were glowing bright red, who was pretending to read but was obviously too flustered to think straight. harry ran straight to where his boyfriend was, not caring how many things he’d knocked over or how the people in the room beneath them could probably hear his every step.

“you treat me too fucking well, lou,” he said, tears accelerating up as he wrapped his arms around louis’ waist. “i love you so much, and i haven’t even read the letter yet.”

“you’re welcome, love,” the ocean boy smiled softly. “but open the letter when you’re not around me. too embarrassing for me to bear. you’ll have to wait until we get home, probably.”

“what?” harry pouted, “i don’t want to wait, though. can i just open it in the bathroom or something?”

“i don’t want to face you after. it’s far too much, hazza. might cry.”

“can i wait until after you’re asleep?”

louis let out a nervous laugh, and its sound made the ugly truth seep into younger boy’s bones. “i, um. i probably won’t be asleep for a while. and i wake up in the middle of the night, anyway.”

“lou…” he knew what he wanted to say; he wanted to tell him to stop, to wake him up whenever he felt that way in the dead of night, that he would never be a burden. but those words were somehow choked by his lips before they could reach the air between them.

“i know what you’re thinking. it’s not that, it’s really not. i’ve just always had trouble sleeping. i know how to cope with it.”

“your way of coping is-“

“we’re not talking about this right now. we’re not going to make this about me, haz. it’s your birthday, for fuck’s sake,” louis pleaded, voice already breaking.

“don’t speak like my happiness is more important than your pain.” harry said.

“it-“

“it’s not.”

“sorry.”

“where the fuck do you even get those razors from? and why can’t i find them anymore? i also can’t believe you brought them here with you on our trip, when we’re supposed to be having fun.”

louis clenched his teeth and swallowed, but he couldn’t swallow the pain or the panic or the lump in his throat. “i’m sorry for ruining things by bringing this back up. for bringing something so _dirty._ don’t worry. i won’t make you deal with this again.”

“that’s- that’s not the problem, lou. i thought we’ve been over this.”

“just drop it. i’m fine, harry. you, you can read it. if you want. i don’t really mind anymore, it’s not a big deal, actually.”

he wanted to talk back, he really did, but he couldn’t risk the boy changing his mind. so he just let out a shaky breath and willed for things to someday improve. it was so tiring, to the point where sometimes he wondered if any of this was _actually_ worth it. 

one look in louis’ eyes, though, and those thoughts would dissipate like they were never there in the first place.

and how dare they? how dare they manifest when the boy before him had done nothing wrong?

“i’m going to go read it, then, love. if you need anything, let me know. i’m here. and i don’t think i need to make this clear, but just in case i do, i’m not mad at you, love. i just want the best for you.” he threw a worried glance at the boy before retreating to the bathroom.

when the door closed behind him, he felt his entire façade crumble. he slid down against the wall and curled up against himself. he knew, that if he was so tired, louis must have been feeling it several times as heavily. every single time they had a conversation of that sort, he’d feel the energy drain out of him and the worry suck him dry. it was moments like these, when he needed time for himself, that he’d worry about louis the most. whether the boy was hurting himself, if he was purging, if he was telling himself over and over like he always would, that he deserved to feel the hurt so acutely within him.

he was reminded of the envelope in his hands after he’d clenched his fists and felt the shimmery gold paper weaken in his hold. _to: haz,_ it read, in louis’ messy, yet endearing handwriting.

it took a second to open, leaving harry wondering how the boy had sealed it so tightly. he was extra careful and willed his movements to be as delicate as possible, in fear of injuring any of the envelope or letter. this was something that he knew he’d keep for the rest of his life, so he wanted to preserve it as much as possible.

_harry,_

_first of all, i’d like to say happy birthday. i wish i could give you much more than i do. you deserve much more than i am. you’ve done so much for me, and i’m unable to do the same for you. the fact that you’re still here with me is insane to me. the very fact that you were born and whatever higher power made the decision for you to stumble across someone like myself in that bathroom is beyond me. truly, i don’t think i could put into words how much you’ve helped me and how much you mean to me. so thank you, harry. thank you anne, as well, for bringing such a wonderful person in a world like this. you will do great things. i know for sure that whatever path you take with your music, or whatever else you decide to do, you will change many lives._

_secondly, i’d like to thank you for being with me all this time. i’ve been so much work. don’t even try to tell me i haven’t been. since the very fucking beginning, i have. since that day i woke up in the hospital. since new year’s. you’re going to tell me it’s not my fault, and i know logically that it isn’t, but it feels like it is. anyway. this isn’t a therapy session, this is a birthday letter. so i’m saving this for a different day._

_i just want to tell you that even though i might have trouble showing it, you really do mean so much to me. i really do wish that i could function better, so that i could be a better boyfriend to you. if… if seeing other people for sex is something you think you’d be interested in, i won’t stop you. or if you think- if you think that sex is such a game changer for a relationship, i’m willing to grit my teeth and bear it. i’ll even act like i enjoy it. anything, harry. it’s frustrating especially because i know i could do much better for you, i just, i just don’t. so i’m sorry. maybe one day, some disgusting godsend will take my life, and i’d finally be able to repay you through the abscess of my soul._

_it’s almost a devastating liberation, to write this all to you; everything i’ve tried to tell you but have failed to. so, i guess this is where all my inner sappiness embodies itself into something more than just the butterflies in my lungs and in my throat. harry edward styles, i’m not exaggerating when i say you are literally the best thing to have ever happened to me. someone like me, at that! but seriously. i don’t say it enough—i love you. i really do. not just because you were the one that happened to find me hyperventilating in that bathroom (i’m glad you did… although i wouldn’t have minded if our first meeting was more romantic). not just because you happen to love me. no—i love you because of your eyes, laden with the most beautiful shade of green i’ve ever seen. i love you because of your voice, warm and thick as it washes over me like high tide. i love you because of the words you say, for some reason so effortlessly laced into works of art._

_i told you that you reminded me of sonnet 128. and i stand by my case. it sounds really fucking pretentious, but i still think it’s beautiful. i know you’ll go looking for it, so i might as well make it easier for you by reciting a few lines here:_

_how oft, when thou, my music, music play’st  
upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds  
with thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway’st  
the wiry concord that mine ear confounds,  
do i envy those jacks that nimble leap_

_it’s actually mainly about sex, if you couldn’t tell. something that i’ve failed to provide for you. but if you think about it literally, and take the words at face value, it’s pure. about someone whose music plays right into the heart. and that’s you, isn’t it? completely and wholly._

_anyway, i don’t want to go on for too long. there are plenty more reasons; i could list them for a length longer than all the written texts in the world, but i don’t want to make you read that. just know that i’m being completely and utterly sincere. i love you._

_and again, thank you for everything that you do. i don’t deserve it. please never lose yourself in the process of finding me. happy birthday. if i’m not around for the remainder of them, i’ll say it again and again. happy birthday. happy birthday. happy birthday. happy birthday._

_big love,  
louis_

his writing, harry could tell, deteriorated as the letter progressed, as the ocean boy’s hand grew tired. there were even drops of what he could only assume to be tear stains, making some of the black words bleed into each other. every single time louis spoke like he wasn’t someone worthy of love, someone deserving of divine punishment—his heart wrenched inside of him. as much as he wished he was crying due to the beautiful confessions of love presented to him, that wasn’t it. it was the fact that his boy he’d loved so much talked about himself like he was nothing.

he couldn’t help himself, not after reading all that. louis told him that he didn’t want it to be addressed, that the letter was something too embarrassing for him to ever think about again, but there was no way harry was ignoring it. there was no way he’d let go of the boy a second time.

“louis?” he called, after rushing out of the bathroom.

“yes?” the ocean boy flinched, pursing his lips and frowning. this wasn’t supposed to be happening. “i told you, haz, we’re not—“

“there’s no way you expect me to read all that and never think about it again.”

“i didn’t say that, love. i just- i'm a shy person, alright? i’d never poured that much of my heart out to _anyone,_ not even jean. i can’t just open up and talk about it.”

“lou, you have to understand the loving me part isn’t what i want to talk about. yes, i’m absolutely over the moon, but that’s not the important part. you could love me or not love me, and i’d feel the same. listen to me, just for a second.” harry paused, collecting himself. “never. never think that you are undeserving of my love. or any love, for that matter. you’re worthy, louis. you’re a good person; the most beautiful i’ve known. you might not believe that now, but please, love, please try. and don’t speak like your death would be a favor to me. if anything, i’d never be the same again. i’m already operating under the assumption that i’ll be spending the rest of my life with you. that is, only if you agree to it.”

“i- i’m sorry. i don’t want you to try to make this about me, though. not on your birthday. i just want to make you feel loved and special and spoiled. like i should be. the fact that i’m the topic of conversation right now is a crime and a failure on my part, as your boyfriend.”

 _“i don’t fucking care about my birthday, lou.”_ harry snarled, so venomously that the smaller boy thought he could feel a particle of his saliva land on his cheek and burn into his flesh. “not when you’re talking like you’re not worth everything in the world. like you won’t be here next year. because, fuck, lou. you’re- you’re so fucking special, and i don’t know how to convince you of that.”

“i’m sorry.”

“don’t apologize to me. apologize to yourself. you’re always, always, always treating me like i’ll break under the pressure of loving you. you’re always taking such good care of me and putting my happiness above yours. so please, i know you’ve heard this millions of times, but please love yourself.”

for a second, harry could have sworn that the ocean boy’s eyes deepened, and he could feel himself sink deeper and deeper—unsalvageably so—into their abyss. “it’s hard,” louis whispered, hair beginning to fall over his face.

“i know. i know, love.” he wrapped his arms around the boy’s shaking shoulders.

“the necklace looks good on you,” louis brought his fingers up to harry’s chest, tracing his fingers over the gold chain.

“you really marked your territory, huh?”

“oh, shut up.” he looked down with a soft smile. “i guess so, yeah.”

and _fuck,_ harry felt himself fall harder than ever once again (if that was even possible). their bodies were pressed firmly against each other, and he wondered if this feeling would be as fleeting as everything else was doomed to be; he wondered if he’d ever be successful in having to replicate this moment in time again.

and he hoped he wouldn’t have to.


	43. dreamcatchers for teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brook revisited - adam melchor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of suicide/death , self-harm , eating disorder , past sexual abuse (MENTIONS OF SELF-HARM AND DRUGS IN AUTHOR'S NOTE AS WELL. DO NOT READ, I AM SIMPLY OVERSHARING) 
> 
> hi all, i might start uploading less frequently (every three days instead of two? or maybe i'll just work harder during the day) as my mother caught me hurting myself with my laptop open at 4am and i may be losing some privacy. she was pretty mad, doesn't really understand mental illness, which is to be expected. i'm fine, really, just inconvenienced. i've dealt with this before and have been able to wriggle my way out of treatment before (much of the hospital arc is based off of person experience). especially with covid, it's just not safe. pretty sure i've effectively convinced my parents that i'm all good. that it was a one-time deal or whatever. hid my oxys so i'll be able to keep taking them which is lucky for me.
> 
> thanks for reading! i already have an idea of a next fic, less personal, but still going to be fun to write. naturey and everything, you know? but yeah. take care, i love you all. dms are always, always open. i apologize for the long author's note. 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

the return back to london felt uncannily anticlimactic. it wasn’t a grandiose arrival, it wasn’t a slap in the face with the smell of home.

it’s not that the two weren’t glad to be home—travel, regardless of whether it is recreational or work related, is tiring. but new york had this magic about it, one that sang brightly despite the political shambles the american government seemed to be in. if harry didn’t know better, he’d have thought the entire trip was merely a figment of his imagination.

ironically enough (and much to harry’s dismay), he was struck with this incessant inspiration. he’d been at a wall, striking it over and over to no avail during the weeks leading up to his birthday, but as soon as they’d returned, it was like he’d hit a gold mine of ideas. for lyrics, for melodies, for countermelodies. it took everything he had in him to not make every song he wrote about a certain ocean boy in his life. that’d be far too cheesy, wouldn’t it?

it all reminded him of dvorak’s _from the new world_ symphony. america, he thought, has always been quite the catalyst for imagination, it seemed. it was one of his favorite symphonies, too. a tune that most everyone who has studied music would know, but despite everything, it held a very special place in his heart. the infamous english horn solo, especially. like he’d told louis before, it wasn’t that he was a classical music person. he just came to be one, enthralled by its hold after having to study it.

dvorak wrote _from the new world_ during his time in new york, as well, allowing himself to bask in the highly romanticized version of america. he had a very open mind, taking influences from both african-american and native american folk music. had those groups truly been as free as the music made them sound, it would have been much easier to praise.

it wasn’t exactly _america_ that’d struck harry so hard, though. it was the feelings that louis instilled within him. this bone-deep sense of longing that he’d always felt, whether he was with the boy or not. it had always been there, though at varying strengths. right now, however, it was more painful than ever before. like he didn’t feel at home unless he was engulfed by louis’ arms, or even better, his lips.

and as a result, he had an album in the making. it had a sound that he was quite happy with, and it all just seemed so unreal. just a few months ago, he’d been a lost student studying music with no aim whatsoever, but now, here he was, his future all lined up perfectly for him.

of course, he had his doubts, like any other adolescent that’d planned to go down this path. what if he doesn’t sell? what if it’s no good, after all? what if he dedicates all of his time to this, and finds out that it’s not what he’d imagined it to be, after all? what if he loses everything else important to him, loses _louis,_ in the process of searching for what’s best for his career?

and it was _louis,_ being the angel he was, who kept a steady hold on harry’s waist the entire time, reminding him that things were going to be okay, that he was _harry styles,_ that no matter what happened, he’d find a way to work it all out, and he’d never be alone. it made him feel so safe, so warm, and he’d think of the letter he’d received just days before. it made him want to curl up and die. how could the ocean boy treat others with all that care and tenderness, yet be so hard on himself? how could anyone commit such atrocities upon him? and how could he have forgiven them all, even when they hadn’t deserved that kind of charitability?

he’d been trying harder to contain the boy’s destructive behaviors, but louis would always find a new way to wriggle around it all. he had to come to terms, he realized, with the fact that there was nothing he could do to change or control louis. it all came down to the boy’s own willingness to change. the very least he could do, though, was keep him physically as safe as possible, and make things just a little bit easier by supporting him along the entire way.

the first time he’d noticed things shift was the first week after they’d arrived home. louis was writing and going out than ever. it hadn’t bothered harry so much as worried him—he wasn’t quite sure where the boy would be disappearing off to, after all. he hated to admit it, but he worried that one day he’d never return after one of his departures. he would leave so tired-looking, so void of hope or feeling; concern was surely reasonable under these circumstances. there was no doubt that louis was loyal, but that wasn’t the problem. what if he were to be taken advantage of once again? or if the urges one day grew too strong and by the time harry saw him again, the boy would no longer be of this world?

he was determined, now more than ever, to reinstate that habit of holding the boy’s hand during and for hours after meals. it had lapsed after christmastime and especially after new year’s, but even a blind man would be able to tell that louis was returning back past the threshold that was far beyond ‘well’. he was undeniably returning to wasting away.

harry decided to follow louis on one of the ocean boy’s bad days, excuse for himself being that he was concerned, which was true, but much of it was also out of morbid curiosity. it took the worst kind of self-control to not wrap him up in layers and layers of jackets after he’d noticed that louis had left wearing only a thin long-sleeved tee. he wondered, if this too, was self-harm in a diluted form; if louis had intentionally tried to feel the unrelenting cold bite at his skin, or if this was a sick way to burn calories. he hoped it was neither, that it was simply negligence and forgetfulness—he told himself that it _must_ have been just that, but he knew that there was nothing that louis ever did that wasn’t for some reason. he was diligent, so diligent that it was worrying.

louis stopped at a café that harry hadn’t even known was nearby, entering and ordering a black coffee. the younger boy tried his best to slide past the boy without being detected, but at this point, it was more of a miracle than anything that he hadn’t been discovered already.

louis took a stool behind the ceiling-length windows with his coffee and leather notebook, still shaking from the cruel temperature. it was saddening; with how violently he’d been trembling, if harry didn’t know better, he’d have thought that louis was about to seize like the day that he’d found him on the disgusting park bathroom floor.

his expression had been overtaken by melancholy, though, despite his shaking, which had gone on for so long there was no way that it was out of cold anymore, harry realized. he simply wrote and wrote and wrote, watching as pedestrians walked by on the street, with their thick, downy jackets, the yellow taxi cabs cruising along calmly, the beating of the city’s heart. it was grounding, in a way, but also made harry realize how small and insignificant they really were, in the grand scheme of things. terrifying.

louis smiled shyly to himself, and harry it hit harry again, just how _whipped_ he was. how criminally beautiful the boy was.

he thought he’d been hiding pretty well, when louis suddenly turned around, looking harry right in the face despite his hood, surgical mask, and sunglasses. a viable disguise, if he thought so himself, but apparently louis had not agreed.

“i know you’re here, haz. decided to humor you for a while, but i can’t help but tell you how stupid you look,” he chuckled softly, “not to mention shady as fuck.”

“wh- you knew the whole time?” harry sputtered incredulously. “so i just looked like an idiot following you?”

“anyone with ears or eyes, or even without ears or eyes, would be able to tell. if i didn’t know better, i’d have thought that you were trying to jump me. if you wanted to come along, you could have just asked.”

“i do, almost every time. but you just tell me that you’ll be fine,” he sighed. “besides, i wanted to observe you in your natural habitat. i just want to know what you do when you go out without telling me anything. mission failed, i guess, since you figured out that i’ve been following you.”

“not really. this is where i’m usually off to, or the library, when i go out. i just like to take some time to breathe after bad nights. remind myself of all the beautiful things in the world, you know?”

“you’ve been having bad nights?”

“just the usual. don’t worry about it.”

“you never rely on me.”

“you’re a busy man,” he said, gazing downward, in the way he always did when he felt ashamed, harry could tell. and fuck, he looked so damn small in that moment.

“you always let me lean on you, though?”

“i want to help you feel better.” he said, “not to mention, i’ve relied on you enough.”

“just, just try, okay? i know me continuously urging you might not do anything. but i’ll repeat it until it happens. even if it never does. when you- when you awake from a dream that makes you want to hurt yourself, just wake me up, too, and i’ll hold you so tightly, you won’t be able to escape.”

“that,” the ocean boy laughed bitterly. “that might have an opposite effect, considering everything.”

“okay, then i’ll be gentle. or i’ll just hold your hand and tell you stories that give you reasons to keep going.” harry closed his eyes and willed his voice to stay steady. this was for louis, after all. he had to keep it together if he wanted any of this to mean anything. otherwise, the older boy would just go all mother bear on him and drop everything to change the subject in attempt to make harry feel better. “i worry. i worry that one day i’ll wake up alone in your bed—our bed—and find you in the bathroom, too long gone for me to salvage.”

“i’ll be okay. and coming here is helping, anyway. it gets my mind off things. i like watching people through the window here, going about their lives at their own pace. imagining what their destinations are like.” he paused, pointing at a woman in a tight, professional-looking suit speed walk down the street, each stride long and full of purpose, as if completely unaffected by the cold. “where do you think she’s going? what do you think her story is?” 

“i don’t know,” harry said thoughtfully. “maybe she’s on her way to a courthouse. maybe she’s a crucial part of some case, deciding whether her client lives or dies. or she’s the ceo of some company, about to tell a bunch of men what to do like the badass she is.”

“i was thinking that she was a lawyer, too. see the briefcase she’s carrying?”

“yeah, that’s why i said that.” he took a deep breath. “if it helps you, then i’m glad you’re coming here. maybe we could go together sometime, when you’re comfortable, to that first café we went to. the one we had our first date at.”

“dreamer’s corner?”

“yeah. we made plenty of good memories there. i miss that.”

“me too.” louis’ voice had a lonely air about it, one that puzzled harry so, since he was right there beside him. why would louis be lonely?

“seriously. wake me up anytime when you’re feeling that way. i don’t care if it’s every night; i mean it.”

“you know, i’m thinking about writing a novel.”

“wh- really?” he responded, having to cut himself off. normally, he’d scold the boy for changing the subject so abruptly, but the news came as such a surprise that he couldn’t help but continue listening intently.

“yeah. i’ve had some inspiration lately. obviously i’m going to continue with school. just want to write some manuscripts and send them in. see where that takes me, you know? i don’t want to end up relying on your success.”

“since when have you relied on my success?”

“i just know i’m going to. because you’re going to end up mad successful while i live in your shadow. which i don’t mind. just don’t want to leech off of you.”

“you won’t be. you’re going to school for a degree, love.” he sighed. “but i support your decision. i think you’ll do great. i mean it."

“thanks,” the ocean boy whispered, smiling at his cup before frowning after spotting his reflection in the dark liquid.

when they walked back, harry insisted that louis wear his jacket, leaving himself in just a crewneck amidst the somber, gray cold. there was no way, he thought, that he’d ever let louis leave without layers again. this wasn’t just a diluted form of self-harm, it _was_ self-harm; albeit self-harm that’d undergone metamorphosis to seem more harmless when it was, in fact, still self-harm.

so that night, when he felt a small, unsteady voice whispering his name and pawing at his chest like a child, shaking and vulnerable, he reached out for the boy and held him like he was made of porcelain. louis’ shaking softened in his arms immediately, which harry took as a sign that the boy was okay with his touch.

“i love you,” harry breathed, “i love you so much.”

“i love you too,” he was _cryingcryingcrying_ , but as long as he was safe, it was alright. this was alright, they told themselves.

“thank you for waking me up.”

the ocean boy shook his head before burying his face deeper into harry’s chest, unspeaking. he sometimes wishes that he could put into words, this primal urge deeply rooted inside of him to tear himself apart, to ruin himself, but he couldn’t. not after he’d just found himself in his mother’s closet again, rocking back and forth, blood spilling from his rear. it’d all just felt _so real_ all over again.

but harry’s hugs were not matthew’s hugs, harry’s arms were not matthew’s arms, harry’s hands were not matthew’s hands. they were much broader, warmer, safer. they weren’t cold travelling up and down his shirt and boxers, they weren’t demanding or forceful. it was just harry with him, and harry would never hurt him. harry would never force him to have sex with him or hit him or tell him that he was worthless. harry would never beat him with the weight of the bible or crucify him against glass in the eyes of everyone in manhattan. no; he was safe, at least, for now, he told himself. he was safe.

“i’m sorry,” louis strained, but his voice had failed him, too scratchy from the tears and from the mucus that had slid down his throat as he tried to suppress his sobs. it hadn’t mattered, though, he realized, as harry’s breathing was already slow and befallen by deep sleep. his arms were still firmly wrapped around the smaller boy’s body, though, miraculously. “thank you, haz.”

maybe, just maybe, it’ll stay like this, he hoped.


	44. only god knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we had been watching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentioned self harm , eating disorder , trauma 
> 
> hi all, hope you enjoy this chapter. i enjoyed writing it. things are going okay with me, the doctors want me to go to some behavioral health crisis place and i honestly rather die so i told them hell fucking no. i got 2 hrs of sleep last night, went to school, went to an appointment, now i have 3.5 hrs of orchestra. very tired. not a big deal. but whatever, you know. it'll be fine. i'm just beyond irritated. also the white men in my life <<<<<
> 
> thanks for all the support. comments mean a lot to me. i've been receiving some dms on twitter regarding this fic, and they honestly make my day. it might not seem like it because i suck at texting and conversating in general, but i really do. so thank you guys sm.
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

for louis, he thought a lot about how he was living proof of not only how tainted someone can be, but also of what parmenides, during his time, believed. what is, is, and what is not, is not. in other words, he thought, what he was trying to say was that things are constant—how something is made stays as how it is made. louis, for one, has been, and will always be, the same scared little boy shoved in the closet. no matter how much time passed (another construct parmenides refused to blindly believe in), he was who he was predisposed to be, as much as he hated it. parmenides was the first of all presocratic philosophers who had even thought to question the existence of change. past the atomists, the pythagoreans. his ideas didn’t make any sense to anyone back then, and they still didn’t now.

many of these ideas were so indescribably outside of what everyone else believed, such as that the world around us is nothing more than an illusion—after all, if the universe once did not exist, then there was no way to prove that it existed now.

obviously, louis didn’t believe all this. one would be crazy to. and it’s not that he liked to study philosophy or even particularly understood it. this concept had just stuck out to him, one that he’d read somewhere in a book or article, and it’d taken him by the shoulders and throttled him. this is who you are, it told him, no matter how far you run from doncaster, from your illness, from new york, you will never escape from who you really are.

stagnancy is terrifying—that’s an undeniable fact. but the thought of change, of the idea that he could have become a much better person than he’d actually turned out to be, was much more nauseating.

he limited the amount of times he’d allow himself to wake harry after a nightmare to just twice a week. even that, he thought, would be too much to ask of the younger boy. it’d get old, somehow, eventually, and harry would leave him if it happened too often. he felt this reality seep into his bones every time he caught harry glance at him with this worried puppy dog expression when the younger boy thought he wasn’t looking. luckily enough for him, he’d learned over the years how to anticipate others’ emotions and read them like words on a page. to steel himself for sex, for being hit, for being scolded. perhaps that was the reason he liked to lose himself in books so much, he’d realized later on in his life.

harry had finally released his first single out to the public, and producers were already eager to eat him up. labels, record deals, contracts. harry himself hadn’t anticipated this sort of success, but louis had—after all, what was there to not like? he was talented, hardworking, beautiful, kind. it’d been clear to him from the beginning that harry was a miracle. that he’d grow to become someone whose talent would be recognized by the world.

when he first listened to the song, he cried. he was one of the first to realize harry’s talent, the silky timbre of his voice. but when he heard the words to the song, ones that he knew were directed toward him, it was like discovering harry all over again. it felt too good to be true, that someone like harry had loved someone like him so much that he’d even write a song dedicated to him.

louis was happy for the younger boy, of course. harry, of all people, deserved the glory. he was the type of person who’d use his platform for spreading love and promoting equality, no doubt. but for louis, this meant he was falling further and further behind, that harry was getting further and further away from him, that he was growing closer and closer to realizing how much _better_ than louis he could do. how much louis simply just wasn’t worth it.

it didn’t help how on edge harry had been during the weeks leading up to the release. they fought over little, mundane things, and there were times where louis closed his eyes and _anticipated, anticipated, anticipated._ times where he thought, this is really it, this is the end.

but nothing ever came. only wet or soft apologies and harry’s hand slowly being wrapped around his shoulders in telegrammed movements, so that someone could tell from a mile away that his intentions were not to hurt louis, but to hold him.

“i love you,” the taller boy would always say, “you’re my everything.”

despite the petty arguments, the busy nature of everything, the stress, harry would still always make louis meals, sit with him as he ate, and hold his hand until the food would move past what was retrievable.

he’d been eating more, as well. it was a conscious decision of his, to make things a little easier for harry. there was no way, he knew, that the younger boy would be able to juggle not only his career, but also his mess of a boyfriend as well.

what is, is, and what is not, is not. obvious, right? something can’t be what it’s not. louis can’t be anyone but the same shivering whore he’d always been. no matter how much he wrote, how much success he stumbled upon, how much time would pass.

he’d been eating more and cutting less. it all _seemed_ better, but it didn’t _feel_ better. he still looked in the mirror on the nights where he knew he couldn’t bother harry, not with the younger boy’s tired eyes and heavy breaths, and realize how _disgusting_ he had become. he was never able to speak to harry about how much he hated his body, though maybe harry had already known. it all just felt so vain, so first-world; he was ashamed of these feelings and the fact that he’d been acting on them all this time. his life was good. he had friends and parents and a boyfriend. so why did he feel this way?

“lou?” harry mentioned, after the initial storm of his debut single had passed. “it’s alright if you’re not comfortable with this yet, but what do you think about… about moving in together sometime?”

he’d completely forgotten that harry had been staying in his apartment while still paying rent for his own. “you could move in, if you’re okay with that. i know you have a bunch of stuff at your place that might not fit right now, and i need to get rid of some of my stuff anyway?”

“no- i mean- yes, but. what would you think about moving into a bigger place? like, somewhere we can fit all my books,” harry gave the ocean boy a knowing look, “and your stuff. and a larger bed, maybe. though i don’t mind having a small one. it gives me an excuse to be all pressed up against you.”

he rolled his eyes in spite of the blush creeping up on his cheeks. “well, i wouldn’t mind it. but like, are you sure? your career is just now picking up and everything. it’s kind of binding, don’t you think? what if you change your mind?”

“if you’re talking financially, i think it would definitely be cheaper for us to split costs for one larger place than have both of us pay for two places when we don’t even use one of them.”

“haz, that’s not what i’m talking about it, and you know it.”

“i know what you’re talking about, lou. i’m not that dense. but i’m telling you right now that i plan to spend the rest of my life with you, if you allow it.”

“you don’t know that, love. i just don’t want you to rush into anything you’ll regret. there are plenty of people you’re going to meet once your horizons expand from your career.”

harry frowned. “it’s like you don’t want this to work. like you don’t want _us_ to work. you can honestly just tell me if you’re not comfortable moving in with me yet. but don’t you think what we have right now is already practically living together?” he paused. “it’s not like i mind paying for my own place. just wanted to try something new with you. if you’re not okay with it, then fine, i’ll give you time.”

he winced at the almost passive-aggressive sounding tone hanging off of harry’s lips. that’s not it, he wanted to scream, that’s not it. he remembered the penthouse, the glass, the bible, the airport. what did it mean to move in with someone? what did that entail? “i… harry, this, i- it’s not that i can’t see-“ he closed his mouth in attempted to collect himself and his words. he felt like he’d dropped them, and they were now rolling in all directions on the ground. he’d look around, though, and see nothing. “i trust you, harry, i’m just lost. you know how hard this is for me. i just wanted to make sure you were certain about this before i…” he trailed off, mouth tasting metallic and dry.

“before you…?”

he sighed, removing himself from all the inhibitions swimming in this head. “it’s not that i don’t trust you. and it’s not even that i mind getting hurt again. just don’t want to make you become a person you regret being.? and besides, you might realize that this has all been a mistake. it’s a lot of work to move into a place and then move out again, you know? and even if i tell myself that i don’t mind getting hurt, there’s still something deep inside of me—maybe it’s just primal human instinct or whatever—that makes me run from that. i’ve moved in with people within just months of knowing them. it didn’t exactly go well. i’ve told you this, harry.”

“i- i didn’t mean to make you feel that way. i’m sorry, love. my tone just now was completely uncalled for.” harry closed his eyes and tried to dig around for the best way to approach the boy about this. “if you want to wait longer before making the decision, i understand. i shouldn’t have pressured you like that. just know that i’ll never hurt you. i mean, i guess that’s something someone who _would_ hurt you would say.”

 _turn your emotions off, turn your emotions off, turn your emotions off. offoffoffoffoff._ “it’s alright harry. let’s do it. i just wanted to make sure you knew what you were going into first.” he smiled, eyes looking more blue than ever, glossy, as the tears hadn’t seemed to collect at the bottom like they usually did, but instead acted like an impenetrable coating of pure defense against raw feeling. “i really don’t want to have you regret ever meeting me in the first place.”

“never, love. never, never, never. the fact that you would think that just means that i’ve failed as a boyfriend.”

“no, haz. i shouldn’t be guilt-tripping you like this. not when you’ve been nothing but good to me.”

“you’re not guilt-tripping me, lou. you’re telling me how you feel. i don’t care what that bastard has told you before, but expressing your feelings and acknowledging that i may have been an underlying cause of those feelings. not _the_ cause but one of the causes. there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“right…” louis whispered, “right. anyway, if- if you’re still, if you’re still wanting to move in with me, let’s do it.”

“only if you’re really okay with it.” when the ocean boy nodded in earnest, still harnessing tears in his eyes like they’d solidified, he went on. “we could go flat hunting this weekend? grab some lunch on at that one café like we said we would and then look around after?”

“sounds good,” louis smiled, come over by calm. it was going to be okay. harry was not, and will never be jean. he had to remind himself of that on the daily. _harry isn’t jean. harry isn’t jean._

so they went.

to be fair, it’d been an early morning and louis wanted nothing more than to sleep. he’d been jolted awake from sleep with his heart lodged in his throat and this overwhelming nausea urging him to empty his stomach, like it’d empty his mind. he’d been unable to fall back asleep and had to wait for hours before harry woke up, spent reading _love in the time of cholera._ this illness he had wasn’t cholera; and he refused to disrespect disease by comparing it to his own (could one even consider what he has a disease?) but it felt the same. he’s never had cholera before, of course, but he could imagine the insufferable pain, draining of the insides until feeling like you had nothing left, emptiness, the _need_ for emptiness.

he wondered if he could throw it all away if he tried hard enough.

when harry woke, louis remembered abruptly what that day had meant for them and what they had in store. he felt the terror take a wholesome grip on his neck for reasons he couldn’t quite understand; it was just flat-hunting, after all.

they had lunch back at the same homely café they first got to know each other at. like its name, it truly did feel like a corner for dreamers. could he consider himself a dreamer at all? his dreams tended to be nightmares that shook made his guts slosh around—did that even count as dreaming?

the atmosphere of the place hadn’t changed since the last time they came despite the fact that everything else had. despite the snow on the ground, despite their relationship, despite how little time, in retrospect, had passed, in comparison to the series of events that they’d suffered.

it proved parmenides’ claim, he thought, that everything was a constant, unchanging mass of nothingness, of listlessness. even human souls, he thought, could mimic the seasons. ever-moving but always bound to that cycle of certainty despite feeling uncertain.

he’d even ordered the same salad as he did the first day, to which harry frowned at. “that’s not enough,” he said, “this is proof that you’re going back. you’ve been doing so well, so please try, love.”

but he hadn’t. he couldn’t bring himself to, at least not on that day in particular. harry probably understood after looking in his eyes, because his mouth slowly shut and he just sighed, allowing him to slide after ordering a smoothie to share among the two of them (“two straws, please. paper, if possible”). though he had only a few small sips and had harry finish the rest.

surprisingly, it was the younger boy who’d been more picky when they were searching for suitable places to live. even the realtor had grown frustrated with his indecisiveness. for louis, maybe it was because of the suffocating clouds in the sky that reminded him how things will always drift apart, but he felt quite ambivalent about what kind of place they chose.

“too high up,” harry would say, “too many windows, bathtub too deep, no bars to grab onto in case of a fall, floor too slippery and unyielding.”

he’d fight back, knowing that harry was making decisions on his behalf, in worry for him. but he wasn’t a _cripple,_ he tried to argue, he was just suffering from the consequences of past mistakes. “just choose what’s best for you, love. it really doesn’t bother me as much as you think.”

“it bothers _me._ ”

so he just let out a tired breath and nodded.

they’d went through several places that louis didn’t feel one way or the other about before one had really struck him—a condo in the heart of london, exterior almost completely covered by overgrowth. an old lady had lived on one side of the apartment, and the other was vacant. he wondered why the price had been so cheap for such a spacey place, in the middle of the city, no less. when he asked, he was told that it was because someone had died in the apartment just two years prior—a suicide, the realtor claimed.

harry frowned at this, about to shoot the offer down until he took one look at how the protective coating of tears had left louis’ eyes, how they shone more vulnerably than ever before. so he accepted immediately; what else was there to do when louis looked like he really felt at _home?_ how could a place, they’d never been before, they both thought, bring someone this much solace in the first place?

maybe it was the high ceilings or the mossy, almost glazed over windows, or the way light leaked into the place through the skylights, scattered about the entire building? maybe it was the way the walls carried themselves, allowing their voices to resonate clearly, yet always catching on the bits of carpet that could be found in some rooms but not others? or the way it reminded him of how it felt to look right in harry’s eyes; all green and warm and earnest and _present._

either way, it was the place harry decided on, leaving both the realtor and louis astounded at the hasty decision. “are you sure?” louis asked, biting his bottom lip.

harry just smiled fondly and pulled the ocean boy in for a tight hug. “it’s perfect, don’t you think?”

and maybe it was, or it wasn’t, but both options seemed okay to him. it certainly wasn’t home (what truly _is_ home?), but he felt like it had the potential to be. he really did.


	45. i'm a statue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> w. somerset maugham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// self harm , mentions of past sexual abuse 
> 
> sorry if this chapter sucks. i wrote most of it in one sitting. maybe i'll start writing more but i'm not sure yet. i'm trying to get it moving somewhere so it's not just louis being sad and harry coming over and over and over again.
> 
> please please please give me feedback. if you don't think the plot is moving, let me know. and i'm not asking for compliments. it's like that one quote in of human bondage-- "people ask for criticism but all they want is praise," i think it goes? well that's not the case this time. i swear. god i'm stupid ahhaha. i hope y'all aren't disappointed because my writing reads so pretentious and smart when i am literally just a clown. god. where am i going. 
> 
> also don't get me wrong. i'm not religious. but the idea of religion is beautiful, no? that's why i talk about it sm. i plan to read more of the bible and see where that takes me <3
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

the moving process was just as harrowing as he thought it would be.

it involved driving back and forth from louis’ place, harry’s place, and their condo; over and over and over again. they had to rent a truck, which both boys had trouble driving for the first few days, especially while dealing with london traffic and heavy grey skies. it was mid-march already, and louis couldn’t really tell if it’d felt like no time had passed at all since he met harry, or if it’d already been a lifetime.

by the time they were all shifted over to their new flat, it finally hit both boys that this is where they would be living, that this is the beginning of the life they pledged to build together. as much as it was romantic, it was terrifying. after just six months, were they well enough equipped to be together like this? if they were to break up, louis thought, where would he stay?

nights were harder as well, he found. sometimes, he’d awaken and forget where he was, altogether. the place smelled of slight oxidation, which louis usually found comforting, in a way, but all those feelings would dissipate quickly as night fell, forcing louis to shed has antlers and become something much more helpless than he wished to be.

he’d been trying to work away from the cutting, recently, as well. it’s true that he’d done it nearly every night, save for the nights he allowed himself to wake harry, but he hadn’t realized how _dependent_ on the pain he really was, until recently. he hated that word, _dependency._ it was tainted and disgusting and reminded him of how parasites suck the life out of things until there’s nothing left; but without its host, it can’t survive. maybe he was a parasite to harry, he realized; so he steeled himself to not bother the younger boy for more than just one night a week, instead. he couldn’t stop completely, or the boy would get suspicious of him, worried that he was caging up again. and louis knew that those reservations were the last thing that harry needed in his life, especially with how busy he had already became.

the first night he tried to deal with it on his own, he awoke drenched in sweat, feeling phantom cold hands all over his body and caressing his cheek. _let go,_ he wanted to scream, if not for the soundly sleeping boy beside him, _let go, let go, let go._

so he peeled himself out of the sheets, which were so damp that he worried he wet himself during his nightmare. it was a problem that he had as a child, after matthew had come into the picture. his mother had been perplexed as to what had caused it—a seven year old boy should have been far past that stage. louis himself had been confused as well. why had his dreams of matthew triggered such responses? it never happened while the man was touching him or penetrating him. he bled sometimes, much too young and much too small for something as old and disgusting to enter him. but he never urinated during the process.

but luckily, it wasn’t urine that had damped the sheets, just sweat. he’d wash them in the morning once harry woke up, he noted to himself. normally, he’d make a beeline straight to the restroom to sit down on the cold tile and allow his skin to corrode into the equally cold earth. but tonight, he went to the study. he often found himself getting lost within their own home, now, on his most disoriented nights, having forgotten that they’d moved. he would be confused that there had been stairs, or that, beneath his feet, was plushy red carpet rather than unyielding wooden planks.

somehow, he ended up finding the living room after minutes of dizzy wandering, tears threatening to spill over. by the time he finally felt himself collapse on the same shitty brown sofa that was once found in harry’s old apartment, surrounded by bookcases and bookcases and bookcases, he was sobbing uncontrollably—for a reason that he himself could not fathom. it wasn’t a soft sobbing, either. it was an unassumingly violent cry. he cried until he felt himself choking on what he figured was his mucus, but could have been tears or blood or fear; fear of himself, of matthew, of jean, of new york, of his unfamiliar surroundings, of harry leaving him. _dear god,_ he pleaded silently, _please take me or end this._

his hands shook like the trees in new york would shake during storms; bitterly and relentlessly. every breath he worried would be his last, but the idea was also seducing him; the act of dying did not scare him, of course, as it was all he wanted most of his life, but what _did_ scare him was dying without writing a note to harry, conveying his love for him. it wasn’t that he wanted to leave the boy behind; this was just something that he’d wanted for so long it was hard for anything in the world to outweigh that desire.

but nothing happened.

the only thing that bothered him about their new place was that there was no balcony—if he wanted a smoke, he had to exit through the back door, met only by a dumpster and yellowing grass. he wondered if it’d grow back and become green again one spring came. march seemed to be the most hard-boiled of all seasons, coming in like some sort of lioness protecting spring like it were its cub. it was warm at times, but the warmth never remained; it was fleeting just as everything else was. louis couldn’t help but feel drowning melancholy when the clouds drifted together, then apart, then together again. maybe they’d drift apart after he looked away, but it wasn’t something he could bear to stomach watching, so he’d always push it out of his mind like it wasn’t all painted in the sky for everyone to see, whether they wanted to or not.

it was only when he retrieved the lighter when he realized that his legs had become so soft from anxiety and exhaustion that he would probably collapse before even reaching the door, and he wouldn’t have the energy to pick himself back up. so he just sat back down on the couch that smelled so strongly of harry, and lit the candle sitting at the center of the coffee table they purchased on the day they moved. they’d kept the majority of most of their furniture, despite louis’ griping that they didn’t need it all and that it would make everything cluttered, as harry had whined and whined and whined until louis could do nothing but to concede. the younger boy had been something of a hoarder, too sentimental to let anything go. “but it could be of use later on,” he would always argue, “and besides, it holds a lot of memories!”

despite being a hoarder, harry also liked to impulsively buy things—which was the death of hoarders, as they’d just keep buying and keeping until there was no space left to do anything. louis, however, found it quite endearing, so whether he agreed with some of the interior design decisions or not, he mostly went with it.

the flame mesmerized him in a way he never thought it would, and he was overcome with this overwhelming urge to have it lick at his skin. he watched it as if it’d put him in a trance, from its dancing, its bright colors. 

before he knew it, he could smell something burning, which made him shortly wonder whether he’d left something in the oven. when the pain caught up to him, however, he realized that it was, in fact, his arm that was reeling in submission under the flame. it’d turned this bright red, morphing into an almost-black layer of skin. beautiful, he laughed wryly before releasing the fire from him skin. it hurt more after he removed the heat source, he realized, as he wanted it much more than ever before. it’d numbed him, reminding him that this agony inside him was in fact real, able to materialize into something tangible, and not just a figment of his imagination. the burning smell had lingered for a while, clawing at his nostrils and screaming at him to do it again, to hold burn himself again, this time for longer and more intensely than ever. it was a different kind of release than cutting, but pleasant in its own way. there was no blood, which he would usually be extremely unsatisfied by, like when he would throw himself against stone walls and bruise his shoulders and ribs and back. he’d watch the bruises bloom on his skin like what jean had done to him, but they were never the same as blood dripping from open wounds. it wasn’t a catharsis that he could exactly describe or tack a reasoning on.

the pain lingered for a while until it became something so constant his mind learned to tune it out. he watched as a moth fluttered its way beside the candle, wriggling its antennae in curiosity before lunging directly at it with no regard to the rest of the world. it was the tips of its wings that first began to disfigure from the heat, crumbling into nothing but ash as it left a succession of its own entrails as it tried to fly unsteadily, degenerating with every beat of its half-wings. it was beautiful, it its own way, slowly becoming nothing but chalky powder as it endured the flame as it grew. eventually, it became a pile of nothing on the table, not even identifiable as something that was once alive.

louis wondered if he’d turn out the same way, one day—cremated into something indistinguishable. he hoped that someone would be kind enough to scatter his remains across the most idyllic areas of the world he’d never been before. london, of course, was his home, and new york was the place he knew his heart had been buried in, but it would be much more romantic, he figured, if even after death, he could travel and discover more secrets of the world before everything suffered from inevitable heat death.

his crying had stopped, thankfully. it was exhausting to suppress such ugly sobs when they approached him so strongly and seemingly out of nowhere. he hadn’t cut himself, but still had done something just as bad as doing so, as harry would put it. god, he missed harry. he missed him so much despite the boy being just in the other room, at arm’s reach. he wasn’t _really_ at arm’s reach, louis told himself, not when he was so busy and deserved every ounce of rest that could be harvested after long days of school, work, and songwriting. he didn’t need louis to ruin that for him.

as if the world had heard his selfish desires and decided to mock him for even thinking about relying on harry in the first place, he heard the boy trudge down the stairs and reveal himself, eyes tired yet still a bright green; bright as ever.

“love? what are you doing up so early?” harry mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

“couldn’t sleep, just relaxing. thinking. you know.”

“did you…”

harry didn’t have to finish his sentence for the ocean boy to know exactly what he was referring to. and for some reason, the notion had irritated him more than it should have; he knew that harry simply cared, but the words dug at him under his skin, and he wished that they were sharp so they could bring him the release he failed to pursuit that night. “no. i didn’t. you don’t have to worry, harry. i can take care of myself. i’m an adult.”

“i know you can, lou. i just wanted to make sure.”

“sorry. i didn’t mean to yell at you. i know that it’s just because you care. go back to sleep, love. you need it.”

“come with me?” harry said, eyeing the boy carefully.

“i’ll be up for a while longer. can’t sleep, like i said. gonna write.”

“please?”

moonlight dripped into the room from the mossy windows, in a way that illuminated the ocean boy’s eyes like they were made of glass; hardened and artificial and empty. and harry stood, watching, like a beautiful roman statue, as louis pursed his lips and rubbed like lighter between his fingers. “alright.”

as they were walking back upstairs, hand in hand, harry stopped, gripping the boy’s hand like he feared he’d lose it between his fingers. “i saw your arm, by the way.”

“what?”

“your arm. you burned it. we need to dress that first, before sleeping.”

“it’s fine. i’m fine. i was trying not to cut.”

“burning yourself isn’t the answer.”

louis bit the inside of his cheek, looking up at harry, who was a few step above him, not to mention always having been taller than him already. “i know that. i was just out of it, and before i could really understand what i was doing, my arm was already burnt.”

“please, lou. i love you. but i really think it’d be beneficial for you to actually see a therapist.” he sighed, “i’ll be with you for as long as i can, but i can’t provide you with the support you actually need.”

the ocean boy nodded solemnly, leaving harry to wonder if he actually meant it or if he was just agreeing in the moment. this situation seemed to happen several times a month—harry catching the boy hurting himself, pleading him to seek help, louis agreeing, but nothing would change in the end. the first couple of times, harry made the mistake of genuinely believing louis, only to be met with sick disappointment. louis knew this, of course; he knew that harry had trusted him and he broke it over and over again. and he hated himself for it.

“or at least talk to me a bit more,” harry finally said, cutting through the silence that had built a wall between them. “i’ll listen. anything. it doesn’t bother me, louis. i love you so fucking much.”

“you always say that, but i want to be your- i want to be your boyfriend, not your problem to fix.”

“i’m not trying to _fix_ you. how many times have we had this conversation? ever since the first day we met. i’m, i’m not _sanctimonious_ , like you called me that day at the bar. i just,” he sighed, sleep wanting to overtake him once again. “i just want you to be happy. and i want to understand you a little better, you know?”

“i—“ he interrupted himself, throat beginning to constrict, as if it were begging him to not say a word. “i wonder if i’m even meant to be happy.”

“of course you are. so please, allow yourself.”

“have you read _of human bondage?”_

“stop trying to make literary allusions. i’m being serious.”

“you don’t understand. free will is an illusion. you can wish and wish and try and try, but escape is next to impossible and fucking pointless.”

“next to impossible, but still possible. let it out, babe. i’ll listen.”

“i’m—“ he sobbed even harder, “i don’t know what to do.”

“you think you _deserve_ this pain when you don’t.”

“then tell me, what should i do?” louis said, intending his words to sound much more venomous than they did, instead sounding hopeless and dejected.

“you haven’t been taking your meds.”

“they make me feel numb.”

“we can get you different ones. not all meds are for everyone. we can talk to the psychiatrist again,” he watched as the boy’s expression turn sour. “or we can set an appointment with someone else if you didn’t like the last one. i wasn’t very fond of that place, either.”

“promise?”

“yeah. let’s do it.”

louis looked down, saying nothing, studying the darkening patch of skin from his burn. he held the lighter up to his arm for so long, he realized, that it had begun to blacken. “okay.”

“really? you’re not just saying it?” harry’s eyes lit up like someone had set them afire, and louis could have sworn that he could spot islands amidst them. like he could live there forever and still be okay.

“for your sake, not mine.”

“maybe, one day, it’ll be for yours as well as mine.”

“you love me too much.”

“there is never a ‘too much.’”

_“there is always one who loves and one who allows himself to be loved.”_

“believe it or not, i’ve read it. a sick story, yeah. pessimistic and completely off the rails, but i’ve read it.”

“i promise i’ll make up for all this work you’ve had to put into me.”

“make up, first, all the years of happiness that you’ve missed out on. and then we can have a talk.” harry smiled that stupid smile of his, eyes crinkling fondly, relieved. in actuality, all he could do, really, was pray to gods he didn’t even believe in that louis was being genuine, but in this moment, he figured that it was okay to believe in the boy’s words. for now, at least.

“you too, haz.”


	46. oxidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you know what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of self harm , eating disorders 
> 
> i kind of hate this chapter. i was forced to go to the psych ward yesterday. i hoped it would give me some sort of inspiration but it was just one of the worse experiences i've had. wasted a bunch of time and got nothing out of it. i wriggled myself out of treatment again. 
> 
> i'm awful at writing recovery and progression. i don't know what it looks like. it's easier to have them all die in the end. but i can't do that, can i? sorry for the shitty chapter that somehow turned out longer than i thought it would. we're getting places. 
> 
> -

it was at some kind of psych ward with several floors and several departments; from the outside the size made it look daunting, enough so that louis questioned whether he had the right address or not. it was tall, built with browning beige bricks that made the place look like it was softening, like someone could just stick their finger into the wall and have it slide right through. he didn't get to try it, though, too bound by nerves to even walk straight. he'd convinced harry not to come with, after hours of bickering, but the younger boy did finally concede just when louis was about to give in, looking like he was about to shatter into pieces that were too small to be salvaged.

but when he arrived at the parking lot, he almost regretted not bringing harry, missing the warm, reassuring hand that would always ground him no matter how adamant his mind was to fly. the canvas of his shoes were replaced by ruthless lead, weighing him down with every step, begging him to return deep in the ground where he was always told he belongs. it was a miracle that he made it in time for his appointment in the first place, having to travel through the rainy parking lot, past the receptionist, and up the stairs (which he chose over the elevator for the sake of burning as many calories as possible). he could hardly even recall where and when he received the hospital bracelet that was tied around his wrist, plasticky and blue and sterile, like the rest of the place. he wondered if there were actually rooms with mattress material on the walls like he'd always see on tv, but he hadn't time to look before he was jolted out of his trance by a silvery voice.

"louis tomlinson?" a male voice called. he couldn’t come up with a verbal response that would be sufficient, so he simply stood up and trudged toward the man without meeting anyone in the eye; he hadn't caught what the man—his therapist, he presumed—looked like. if a voice, he imagined, could be bottled and sewn into a scarf, then this would be it. not as pleasant as harry's, but not far from it.

"nice to meet you," the man said, sticking out his hand. it was warm when louis took it, slightly clammy but comforting nonetheless. everything about the man was round and soft around the edges, larger, more built, with a bit of bounce in his step from what he could tell. the man's black scrubs looked almost out of place, tightly hugging his round midsection, not too bulging from his pants but enough that it was noticeable. "i'm dr. st. francis, but you can call me tom. our first meeting today is just going to be some diagnostics and getting to know each other, before we get into the nitty gritty of things," he smiled.

on their way through the hallways, louis noticed a group of people of all ages, some in loose-fitting pajama pants, some in hospital gowns, bunched together, following a woman in the same black scrubs that tom was wearing. they were talking, laughing, navigating the snaking halls like they were all to familiar with everything, taking turns speaking. they would look bright and beautiful if this weren’t the place they were found. louis wondered how they dealt when they were alone, or what landed each of them here in the first place.

tom's office was actually much more pleasant than he expected it to be. it had only a single glowing yellow lamp set up dimly in the corner, walls laden with minimalist artwork, potted plants at every corner, and a lightbox sign with tall, thin letters, so calm that they seemed almost ominous: _comfort is a slow death._ unsettling, to say the least, louis thought. wasn't the point of therapy (the word tasted metallic and unpleasant in his mouth, even without him having to say it aloud) to be comfortable, after all?

"so, what brings you here today?"

 _god, it always starts with this._ "not sure, really," he smiled as cordially as possible, "my, uh, my partner seemed to think it would be beneficial and i decided to give it a go."

"and what made them say that?"

"i don't know. he's concerned about me."

louis only realized after the fact that he'd referred to harry as a _he,_ but thankfully tom didn't say anything about it. he hadn't really questioned his sexuality as much as he was self-conscious of it—from the moment matthew brought him into that closet, it never quite seemed like a choice. it started with a man and will inevitably end with a man. _disgusting,_ he thought. had his life and relationships all been predisposed from the moment matthew violated him? from the moment he began to _trust_ someone? had his gayness been man-made, after all, just like his illness?

the silvery voice, once again, penetrated his thoughts. "do you think his concern is called for? rather, would you ask the same of him if it were him rather than you in your position right now?"

it was always the same questions. every mental health specialist is the same; it didn't matter how much experience they had or how long they went to school or what degrees they have; all they do is repeat the same questions like some broken record. it was nauseating. "yes, but that's different,” he said through clenched teeth, “he's him. i'm me. different things work for different people."

"and you think this won't work for you?"

"i'm sure of it."

tom seemed unfazed at louis' attempts to break him down. he wanted to get himself kicked out so that he could report to harry like he'd at least tried. lying for the rest of his life to the man he loved seemed so much more plausible, in this moment, than truly getting better. if he could just escape, he thought, if he could just pretend to be okay so that harry wouldn't worry, if he had done better from the very beginning, if he and harry had never met in the first place, then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be here, in this eight or nine story tall building, talking to some shrink who was saying the same words to him as everyone else. treating him like a cripple, like some proximity mine that would go off if anyone took a wrong step.

he finally looked up after spending nearly fifteen straight minutes with his eyes glued to the floor, only met by youthful gray eyes and mousy brown hair, which told him that tom can't have been more than ten years older than him, burying him deeper in shame.

"can you tell me what exactly it was that your partner saw to be the most concerning?"

louis clenched his jaw even tighter than he had been before. "you can't legally institutionalize me without consent, right?"

"well, no. not if i don't have strong, strong, strong reason to believe that you will be a great danger to yourself or others within the next twenty-four hours. and due to confidentiality laws, what is spoken in this room, stays in this room. unless, of course, i think you are in danger of, say, taking your own life by the end of the day."

"i guess it's because i have a habit of hurting myself, then. though i don't quite understand why it's bad, other than the fact that my scars are absolutely revolting."

tom's pen scratched even harder on the paper, creating this rough noise that told louis that tom was a very serious man, prepared for anything and drowning in attention to detail. the sound didn't make his head throb like the pattering of the keyboard had, back in the hospital, but it’d still put him reasonably on edge. like the man was recording the abscesses of his soul, and each stroke of the pen conveyed this fucked up innocence that he’d lost.

“and what makes you think they’re ‘revolting?’”

“what sane person would think otherwise?”

“you have a boyfriend, you said?”

“that, i do.” louis frowned, knowing exactly where this was going. “but he hasn’t even seen the entirety of them. not in detail, anyway. maybe for a few seconds after… after certain things happened, but definitely not extensively, no.”

“he’d probably have something to say about you talking so badly about yourself, no?”

“well, yes, but that’s just because he’s nice. and he cares.”

“would you agree that you’re deserving of this care?”

tom watched him cryptically, as if waiting for him to reveal more about what he thought of himself so he could refute it. “i don’t know.”

“i see,” the man hummed, making more notes, writing quicker than louis had ever seen anyone write, in fast, nearly illegible cursive. he noticed the excess fat on the man's chin, and how it shook and danced with each movement. he wondered, if he, too, had such a chin. just the thought on its own made louis want to empty his stomach again, of the breakfast he completed, and how sick it made him feel. “you two mentioned on the phone that you have… a history of eating disorders on top of the self-harming tendencies we covered briefly?”

“i guess you could say that, yeah.”

“and that’s the reason you're here? to seek help for that?”

louis winced at the man's words. “i guess so.”

“have you been taking medication for what you struggle with?”

“i was prescribed medication but i haven’t been taking it. i don’t like how it makes me feel.”

“can you tell me a bit more about that?” the gray eyes he tried so hard to avoid were beginning to catch up to him, terrifyingly. like they could see whatever it was within him that screamed _mentally unstable._

“it just makes everything feel like i'm watching life through a sheet of glass. like i'm wondering all the time, _‘when does life begin?’_ i rather feel the pain than feel nothing at all, to be quite honest.” he sighed, eyes shifting to the floor, “i know that kind of thing takes time to kick in. and i know it’s supposed to be like that for a while. but it’s not something i'd like to sit through again or wait for.”

more writing. he wondered why tom chose to write everything traditionally rather than type, like most people did. surely, it would prove much easier and much less stressful to the wrist. the man is going to get tendonitis, sooner or later, he thought. “i understand that. well, i'll have you know that not all medications work for everyone. each can have extremely differing effects, and it wouldn’t hurt to give others a try. it would be quite beneficial, i believe, to see what best fits for you,” tom shifted in his seat, causing the faux leather of his chair to squeak slightly under the weight. “we can work on getting that information to your current psychiatrist. i’ll give them a call after this appointment and see what we can do for you. it says dr. fayed on file?”

 _so that was her name._ it seemed familiar enough, he figured. “right,” louis nodded carefully. and god, he just wanted out, he wanted to escape, he wanted something from the sky to pluck him right out of his seat and swallow him whole.

“have you ever seriously thought about ending your life?”

“no,” he said quickly, almost interrupting tom mid-sentence. “no. i'm not trying to get myself institutionalized, thanks.”

more notes. what the hell was there even to write? he thought, who was going to see all that, anyway? “i’m just trying to get a gauge on the safety piece of things,” again, with that silvery voice, so alluring, beckoning louis to spill his guts out in front of the stranger. “these are just procedural questions we have to ask all of our patients.” when the boy said nothing, he continued. “do you ever feel like a burden, or that your friends or family would be better off without you?”

louis pursed his lips. “i… i guess so? i don’t know.” he _did_ know, but the mere idea of admitting so would feel too much like begging for pity. this was something that many people felt, he knew, he wasn’t special, but it still somehow hurt to be asked so directly.

“do you ever feel like people would be better off without you?” to which louis said nothing, only continued staring at the ground like it would grow legs and run away, taking him with it. his heart didn’t feel like a heart at all, something unmoving and unbeating. tom nodded after what felt like hours of poignant silence. “okay. so, what are some things, people, activities, anything really, that make you feel safe?”

“harry. reading. writing. listening to music. the normal things i'm sure you’ve heard plenty about from other people.”

“it’s safe to assume that harry is your boyfriend's name?”

he blushed, feeling it all the way up to his ears. “yes.”

“do you speak with him about your problems?”

“sometimes. it depends. i don’t want to bother him. he’s busy, swimming in talent and potential. you’ll probably hear his name in the news sometime.”

“and you think that makes your struggles less of a cause for concern?” when louis flinched, the man cleared his throat, causing the fat surrounding his chin to fold for a second before releasing tension. “because that’s what it is, louis. you’re struggling. you may fail to see it that way, but you deserve this help. you deserve to pursue happiness.”

he wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that he inherently disagreed with the statement being said that made his insides twist so uncomfortably, or if it was how straightforwardly they were said. maybe it was both. “i can’t always be depending on others. i want to take care of this on my own. harry’s my boyfriend, not my parent.”

“you don’t have to be codependent to ask for help. they’re different things. he seemed really worried over the phone. he likely just wants to help you out as much as you help him out.”

“he doesn’t owe me anything.”

“do you believe you owe him?”

louis feared that his teeth would shatter under how hard he was clenching his jaw. as if doing so would bite back his words like they weren’t vapor that could slide through even the slightest of gaps. how selfish. “of course i owe him. for taking care of me all this time. for loving me despite how difficult i am to love. for not forcing me to have sex with him, ever. for not, despite not having sex in months, seeing anyone but me. for being everything he is.”

“are those things not just the bare minimum in a relationship? loving you, helping you with some things, not raping you, not cheating on you? are those things not what should be present in every relationship?”

“but. but he’s not giving me the bare minimum. he’s giving me all that and so much more.”

“and you’re talking about what should be a given in a relationship, like it’s something you’ve been robbed of in the past. especially your experiences with sex. tell me more about that.”

his head throbbed like his brain was trying to escape the skull that acted like a cage. he felt it disfigure and contort and scream violently at him like that would solve _anything._ run, it said, run. from this place, from harry, from anything that would force him to speak. but he hadn’t, he _couldn’t,_ he couldn’t stop himself from selfishly offering all that he was to this stranger, with his eyes that were able to see right through him. “i- i don’t know. i guess it’s just something i’ve had experience with in the past?” his voice shook as he spoke, making it sound like he was about to cry, when there were no tears that could be found in his eyes, rather, just a force that wished to seize his adam’s apple, bobbing every time he tried to swallow the anxiety bubbling up from his stomach. “i don’t know. i probably- i probably am unable to talk about it right now. the, the fact that i’m even admitting something like that to you is a big step for me. please give me some time.”

“i understand. i'm not here to push your boundaries. and i’m happy that you acknowledge how far you’ve come. because truly, you have made great strides for yourself and for your future.”

he smiled softly, mostly forced, but just the smallest bit natural, and closed his eyes. in this moment, everything felt lighter, like everything else around him could disappear and he wouldn’t mind. this was okay, he thought, for just a millisecond, a tiny sliver in time that would be so immeasurably small and insignificant, before the glimmer evaporated back into the air, like it was never there. but it left louis much warmer than he was before, much more hopeful, even.

he hadn’t realized how hungry he was until everything was over and he made it back into his car, all the adrenaline deserting his body, leaving his legs soft and clumsy, hands shaky, and the ground beneath him feel further and further away with each breath he took. he was also much more exhausted than he anticipated—when he tried to steady his hands on the steering wheel, they wouldn’t stay up. they were no longer _his_ , he thought, no longer things that had belonged to him—just foreign objects he couldn’t feel or control. he tried to pick them up, and they only fell limp to his sides. maybe he would be stuck outside this huge psych ward until he and his car were chewed up by time and erosion. he could die here, and the only legacy he'd leave behind would be harry and his half-written journals that were hardly cohesive enough to be grouped as a singular story. was the lightness he experienced earlier with tom an illusion? was he deluding himself to believe that he actually _could_ get better? someone like _him?_

he hated himself for calling harry, for giving into whatever higher figure that was trying to take him for its own. each keystroke, each number of harry's dialed, required a different source of energy he didn’t have, not after damn near admitting his entire life story to a man he didn’t know. people told him that he was all these great things, but he couldn’t see it. he failed to find meaning in their words all these years, and even then, louis felt like an imposter, faking his illness, his alleged _kindness_ , his respectability, his bravery.

when harry came by bus fifteen minutes later, finding louis crying timidly in his car, unable to move, he worried that the appointment had gone badly. _they were going to work on it,_ louis said, repeating it like a mantra. _this will turn out well._

they finally got louis to shift over from the driver's seat to the passenger's as the engine revved on. spring was coming, as told by the budding branches of the willows that had been naked for so long, finally starting to find meaning in being again. the ocean boy loved watching people sing and become happy after times of hardship. he remembered the sign hanging in tom's office: _comfort is a slow death_ , and finally thought that he was beginning to understand what it meant.


	47. a farewell to who i once was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of self harm , eating disorder , past sexual abuse 
> 
> hi, i'm more proud of this chapter, though i had some awwfullll writer's block around the beginning. i'm figuring things out. 
> 
> my life is beginning to shift back to normal. still trying to figure out how to write recovery, you know? i'm also trying to rekindle my interest in other things. kinda rough. and stressed. i want to do well in school, as well. feels like the world is leaving me behind. rip social life
> 
> thank you for the beautiful comments! especially to the people who never have commented before, it means a lot to me. and thank you to diaryofashydreamer, riyaaa, and ilovelouhaz on ao3 as always! (and maddy, if you're reading this, i love you :)) 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

louis considered himself something of a master when it came to tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. it wasn’t that he blatantly lied during his sessions, rather, he liked to see it as simply shifting the attention onto other, less personal things. not even a year ago, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine himself opening up to _anyone,_ and the fact that he had to harry was nothing short of a miracle. harry made it so easy to want to lay himself out nakedly, to believe that he would be accepted and loved unconditionally. the same just couldn’t be said about tom, someone paid to listen to him, with no real power to change anything.

after that first session, he knew that he should have been feeling relief and trust in the system, but all that he could muster was shame. shame that he would even consider getting help (since he was so unworthy), shame that he even briefly thought of his problems as if they were _real._ it got harder to show, it seemed. each time he would arrive at the intimidating monster of a building, his legs would feel stiffer than the last. the anxiety robbed him not only of his breath, but of his joints as well. like his body was suddenly unnatural and stationary, not made for life as much as for decoration. and a shitty decoration, he was.

tom had told him in his third or fourth session (he’d stopped counting, as it got too tiring and disheartening, feeling like so much time had passed with little to no improvement), to write something that made him smile on a post-it note every day. the sheer absurdity left him almost keeling over with laughter the first time it was mentioned, until he realized that the man was not joking. it was a stupid idea, he thought, something crafty teenage girls would do in their free time. nothing for him.

but when he came home to harry to laugh about the ludicrousness of tom’s suggestions, rather than laughing with him, the boy frowned.

“it’s a good idea, no?”

“no. are you crazy, haz? i think this was a joke after all. tom is quite funny if he tries, i guess.” 

“no,” harry said carefully, eyes drawn to the ceiling in thought. “i think it would be quite good for you. to identify how many blessings are granted to us, you know. happiness is possible and everything.”

“well, whatever. i just don’t think writing down stuff like that would help.”

harry said nothing, only shook his head defiantly, as if scheming something.

and he was, after all. louis began finding post-it notes everywhere in just days following that first conversation. in his clothes, on his desk, in his cups, on his pillow, in his books, on his phone, on his windows. some of them would have sweet, lengthy messages that conveyed undying love, and others just single words that he knew louis thought to be beautiful, or book quotes, or small drawings. they were endearing, to say the least, and he found himself keeping them in a box tightly sealed away beneath his bed.

he started doing the same for harry, feeling guilty about not being able to provide the same happiness that his boyfriend did for him. his notes never felt the same, though, despite the fact that harry would keep repeating that they did.

 _why, darling. i don’t live at all when i’m not with you,_ he wrote once, hidden in a place he knew harry checked very rarely—rather than on his pillow, in his pillowcase. they’d just washed their sheets after a particularly sweaty night for louis, which happened maybe once a month. most of the nightmares were laced with layers of self-hatred and hours spent on cold tile floor, but the sweat-filled nights still made their appearance every once in a while.

who knows what could happen in a month? they could no longer be together, for all louis knew. harry could move on from this precarious game in search of something newer, fresher, less damaged and used. 

he found himself missing his sessions more and more frequently. he would drive there on the seemingly always rainy days that he was scheduled (probably having to do with the fact that it was spring and the petals were coming and falling), and simply sit in the parking lot, waiting for the hour to pass. his excuse was the same pretentious bullshit as always, he knew. aristotle and his obsession with the “real good” and “apparent good.” therapy, for him, would be “apparent good,” he reasoned. not something that would truly bring him anywhere closer to his goal in life, which, in the end, he had no idea of. was life not just a constant, steady descent into entropy?

to punish himself for being so deceptive, toward harry, toward tom, toward himself, he would not allow himself to do anything during these waits in the car. he let his mind wander into the places he would normally keep it from going, to conserve his sanity, if nothing else. but what was sanity worth, in the grand scheme of things?

he decided to organize a beautiful dinner for harry on one of the days the boy had work after classes to make the heaviness just a bit more bearable. he was always the most tense on these evenings, loaded with coursework and unreasonable customers. harry hated working, louis knew, though it wouldn’t be for long if his music career continued going as it was. but they had to pay rent, after all. louis had brought up many times, his willingness to work, but it harry always insisted that it was alright, that he was making enough for the both of them. the mere notion of being so dependent on someone else made him feel sick, but what could he do about it? what could he do, when most days he found himself too exhausted to feel like the skin hugging his flesh even belonged to him?

he set up candles—the caramel type harry loved so much, bought fresh flowers, and willed himself to prepare a full-course meal. he realized, then, that he hadn’t known much about harry, at all. sure, they shared insight on literature, on life, on music, but food was always a subject that they would both consciously avoid. he knew harry did it for his sake; which he appreciated, as food was never something he saw as pleasant, but it’d irritated him that he hadn’t actually known what to prepare for dinner.

so he settled on chicken wrapped with parmaham. cheese had always been something that scared him, unreasonably so, with its stretchiness and milkiness and greasy potential. it was always on pizza, on hamburgers, on everything that his brain would deem as some kind of demonic embrace that lured mankind.

it was all beautiful and poetic until harry had returned home, and he remembered that he, too might actually have to _eat_ all that. a meal that he’d cooked on his own with no regard to calories, fully committed to making it something that _harry_ would enjoy.

“i- i ate a lot while making it,” he stuttered when harry asked why there had only been one serving on the table, and _curse him, for being such a shitty liar in the most important of times._

the green-eyed boy frowned, but nevertheless accepted the statement with hesitance. “you know, i’m actually releasing my album pretty soon. and i have my first gig coming up. i’m just going to do my single and some covers. you know, at a small local bar. you don’t have to come. it probably won’t run late. i’ll be home before you get to bed, most likely.”

he shrunk at those words, because _maybe harry hadn’t wanted him there after all._ though his rational thoughts told him it was just because the younger boy worried about how he would react with the hectic environment, the thought still dug at the back of his mind. “of course i’d like to come. i’ll be fine. i want to see your first performance.”

“i sing to you all the time, though.”

“that’s different. when you sing to me, it’s to _me._ and that’s special in its own way. i want to hear your worldly debut. i want to see you as the world sees you.” it took everything he had to not raise his legs to his chest in shame.

“thank you, love. this means a lot to me. i just didn’t want to push you so hard. because…”

“yeah. i know. and i appreciate that. but i’m fine now, i really am.”

smiles overtook their faces almost forcefully, and the ended the night in the same way the so often would before, before things got busy and complicated: with a movie. it was _saving private ryan_ that particular night, though neither could really remember much, too distracted by the other to really take everything in. louis only prayed that his stomach would be merciful and not growl loudly enough to be heard over the movie.

and he wasn’t able to admit to harry that he hadn’t been attending his sessions.

that night had been harder than some others, in the sense that he felt so _behind._ it wasn’t harry’s success that bothered him—it was his own inadequacy, he realized. even his novel hadn’t been progressing in the way he wanted it to. the characters just wouldn’t _move,_ and the more he tried to urge them to move, poking them with sticks and scenarios that he could hardly even come up with, the more obstinate they would become. and the story would fail to progress.

harry was an ever-progressing machine, he realized. everything he set his mind on, he achieved. and here he was, feet planted so deeply into the ground, unmoving, ungrowing. fantasy was closer to reality than his progression was.

the more he skipped the sessions, the more difficult it was to show up the next time. in truth, every week, he drove to the building with the full intent to actually attend, it just never worked out. the space between himself and the immeasurably large building became so great it was insurmountable.

he found that so much time had passed that he’d watched the seasons change. the magnolia trees had gone into full bloom on the second consecutive session he’d skipped, and by the fourth, there were so many petals falling it could have been mistaken by anyone for snow. if he didn’t know better, he’d reckon that the world was ending, with the sheer amount of pollen that the sky seemed to birth.

everything had been making its shift from white to green when his phone beckoned him to call harry, to tell him everything that was going on; how he was skipping his appointments with tom, how hellishly uninspired he was, how _difficult_ things were getting, how much he felt like he was falling behind. 

harry picked up on the third ring, which startled louis, because he hadn’t expected him to pick up at all. he was busy talking to his team, getting everything for the upcoming gig set up, as well as the release of the album. he told himself that calling would do nothing but inconvenience harry, and that there was no point to it. he could handle this on his own, he _should_ just handle this on his own. if he were to just get up off his ass and gather his bearings and _go,_ it would be so much simpler. if he could just get his shit together, he wouldn’t be in this shitty parking lot at all.

“hello?” worry seeped through the speaker of louis’ phone, which he struggled to hold to his ear. “is everything okay?”

“y-yeah.” his voice came out croakier than he would have liked it to be, but he pushed onward. “just wanted to hear your voice.”

“aw. well, i'm glad you called. you don’t rely on me enough, love. but shouldn’t you be with tom right now? or has it not started yet?”

“um. about that. it officially, it officially starts in a couple of minutes here, but, um- don’t be mad, but-“

“you haven’t been going, have you?”

“n-no. i haven’t. i'm sorry, harry. i really am trying. i promise, it’s just… getting hard recently. i can’t explain it. everything was going so well, it’s just-“

“i understand. don’t fret over it. it’s alright. well, it’s not. but it will be. and stop talking like you’re bothering me—you’re not. i want nothing more than your happiness.” the younger boy sighed; not out of annoyance but out of concern. though, louis saw both as equally heavy.

“sorry for calling. just go back to work, haz. i'm being dramatic again. i'll be fine. i can force myself to go.”

“how long as it been since you last properly went?”

he counted the weeks he’d spent sitting in his car thinking about meaningless things, like what it meant to live, and hung his head in shame. “five,” he whispered quietly, not even knowing if harry had caught what he said.

“right,” harry paused. “so, it must be hard to go back in, huh?”

“yeah, he probably thinks I’m the most irresponsible person to live. i never even called in, or anything!”

“it’ll be okay, lou. the man works with a bunch of-”

“crazy people?”

“…mentally ill people, anyway. and you’re not crazy. don’t say that. it’ll be okay, love. promise.”

“alright,” louis resigned, feeling his resolve harden. “i’ll do this. i'll speak to tom for the first time in five weeks. and I’ll try to be honest, too.”

“okay, lou. i love you, okay? never forget that. oh, and before you go,” he could hear harry’s fond smile through the phone; it made glowing heat replace the anxiety that had been growing so unwaveringly in his chest, “i was cleaning things up this morning, and i found your note in my pillowcase. not sure how long it’s been there, but you really are such a nerd. hemingway? really?”

“hey,” he chuckled, “i love hemingway. he’s probably my all time favorite, at this point, other than shakespeare. better than your edgy dostoevsky.

“hey, i never said he was my favorite! i just said he was interesting,” harry pouted. “you know how much i like my salinger. _catcher in the rye_ is great and all, but there’s so much more to him, you know?”

“right, right. i better get going, then. i’m already ten minutes late. i can listen to you nerd on about salinger later. bananafish, was it? i quite liked that one. and tell me how work goes, too. we can be all snobby and talk about literature and classical music over red wine while listening to jazz with roses in the candlelight when i get home.”

“oh, shut up. we are _not_ like that. you’re just an absolute tool, tomlinson.”

the usage of the word _tool_ and of his last name made him tense in his seat only slightly, but he somehow managed to calm himself down—something that could have never happened just months ago, he realized. “i’ll talk to you later, hazza. thanks for being with me all this time.”

“always.”

despite the comforting words, the walk into the building had not been any easier. he hadn’t known why the place he found also doubled as an inpatient center for those who needed extra care, but it did, making security so much tighter and the process so much longer. he never actually had to step foot in the highly controlled area of the psych ward, but he could still sense the scrutinizing glares that’d treated him like he was something less than human, like he could jump out at any time and slit an unsuspecting bystander’s throat.

shortly after he checked in with the receptionist, he was met with those same unyielding gray eyes again.

“nice to see you again, louis. how are you?”

“i’m sorry i haven’t been coming. things… things have been- well, not hard, but-“

“it’s alright. we get that a lot with some of our outpatients. we just try to give them some time if we don’t think they’re in imminent danger.”

“still. i should have at least called or something. i’m an adult. should’ve acted like it.”

“don’t beat yourself up about it. at least not in the waiting room.”

tom’s office, again, calmed him. the lightbox sign, instead of saying _comfort is a slow death_ like before, read simply _forgive yourself._ how was he to forgive himself in these circumstances? when he was falling so behind?

“so, what made you feel like today was the day to come back?”

“i called harry, i guess. felt guilty. he kind of… helped me gather the courage, i guess. it gets harder to come back the longer i skip.”

“i understand that. if it helps at all, we don’t judge here.”

“i appreciate it.”

“harry is a good support system for you, i assume?” tom added.

“yeah. he is.”

“would you rather talk about some things with him here? i’m not a relationship counselor, but i think if his presence makes things easier to let out, at least for a couple sessions, he could come?”

louis pursed his lips. “i mean, he does know… most things. more than what i’m comfortable saying here, anyway. no offense.”

“none taken. but, what do you think?”

“i’ll- i’ll ask. he’s a busy person, so i don’t… i don’t know.”

the session went on with louis’ feet rooted into the carpeted floor, eyes flicking everywhere, and the sound of pen scraping against paper. less nauseating than before, but the world still spun ever-so-quickly beneath him. the sound of the air conditioning was loud against the silence that separated himself and the tom.

it’s not that he felt that tom was going to attack him at any point, or that tom even seemed like that type of person, but being in such a confined area with the heavy door shut behind them, somehow unsettled him. he didn’t want to imagine a sweaty body atop his, warm breath assailing the tips of his ears, strings of saliva dredged on his chest and in his mouth. he didn’t want to imagine himself saying the wrong things and feeling his face in the ground as a result.

but nothing of the sort happened, not even when he couldn’t find the words to describe how he was feeling, or when he nearly snapped at tom, who continued writing calmly, showing no sign of discomfort at all. of course not, he thought. this was his job. so what was he expecting?

he didn’t want to bring up tom’s suggestion to harry. he knew that the boy would cancel anything and everything for him, no matter how important it was. not to mention, he wasn’t one to hand his soul to a stranger, in the first place. but he had, nonetheless, in midnight mutterings while his face was pressed deep in harry’s chest.

“tom wants you to come to next session. just so i can… get comfortable, you know.” his voice was so soft, he wondered if harry heard him at all. a part of him hoped that the boy didn’t.

“of course, love. i’ll go. the only day i can’t is the day of my gig. but that’s a friday night, and your appointments are usually on wednesday afternoons, anyway, no?”

“yeah.”

“okay. then let’s plan on it. i’m proud of you.”

“thanks, harry. i appreciate that. i’m so-“

“shush. apologize one more time, and i might just kiss you.”

“that makes apologizing even more tempting,” he smiled brazenly.

“my breath smells. are you sure you want that?” harry nuzzled closer to him, and he swore that he could fathom constellations from the flecks of gold in his green eyes.

“your breath always smells. i’m used to it.”

“oh, shut up. you love me.”

louis felt himself look down, fearing that if he allowed himself to marinate in the boy’s eyes for any longer, there would be no chance of return. “i do.” 


	48. until the sun explodes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eroica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// self harm , mention of eating disorder , mention of past sexual trauma 
> 
> hi, i'm trying to get this moving tbh. but recovery really does feel like one step forward and two steps back at times. hopefully with next chapter things will start looking up. 
> 
> i'm still in search of where to take this. follow me on spotify, too lol. my music taste is lowkey pog; if you read this fic, you'll prob like it lol:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/hto3erfdv4x0iqbf1blq3zh2w?si=pDREdj-vT0Oz1krcEaptrw
> 
> and twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

before the two even had time to think about the therapy session that would include both of them, they first had harry's gig lying in wait, inching closer as minutes passed.

harry grew more tense in every passing moment—it was going to be a small, unremarkable reception, with just regulars at the bar which he was going to perform at, but he was nevertheless worried for his first show. louis rubbed harry's back until he saw green eyes flutter shut, praying that no frightening dreams were there to disturb the boy's much needed rest. if there were any way, for just one night, he were allowed to endure both harry's burden and his own, he would. where harry's uncertainty was coming from, he didn't know. there was no doubt in his mind that harry would really _find_ himself onstage, singing his heart out to an audience that'd fall in love at first sight. that's what happened when harry first sung to him, anyway.

louis wondered if it was futile to hope that the boy in his arms would stay in his pressed against him forever, because there was no doubt that he would outgrow him, and eventually fail to fit. he would find some other person that he fits in and around better.

so when sleep refused to come over him, he rolled out of bed for a smoke; not before pressing the cigarette into his arm until he could feel the skin physically sizzle under the heat. it was his own form of liberty, of justice—one that simultaneously numbed his mind yet sharpened it. every exhale of smoke he also exhaled the worries that plagued his mind. he didn't care if it was going to kill him; hell, he'd _rather_ it kill him, if anything.

it was a sick thought, but he would imagine himself slicing off layers of his own flesh, all the way to the bone, and grilling the slabs like meat. he didn't know what about this was all that appealing, but it was. he hoped that his body would be put to good use once his soul was finally set free.

not that he believed anything of the sort, anyway.

the idea of going to a nightclub nauseated him. he wasn't sure what'd possessed him when he dragged himself to a dirty pub on that first night he'd met harry, but the fear, since then, had amplified tenfold, at least, especially after the incident at the party. he couldn't _not_ go, and he really, truly wanted to, to be as supportive a boyfriend as harry always was for him, to watch people cooing and awwing at the boy he knew was _his,_ to be the first one to see that broad smile that would surely blossom into harry's cheeks as he gleamed with success.

but the feeling of another man crawling up and down his skin with a slimy tongue and cold, cold, cold hands always stuck in louis' mind like parasites, burrowing about and making homes in the fissures of his mind.

he lit another cigarette and pressed it even harder into his arm, closing his eyes and relishing the pain like it was something to be milked and enjoyed. _this is better than cutting, it must be better than cutting._ he remembered now, how _at home_ his fingers felt, nestled deep in his throat.

louis closed his eyes and could see an imprint of harry’s face and how deeply some of the lines were set in it, how tired he looked. he was tired because of _him,_ he gave up _everything_ for someone like _him._ it was sickening, really, how selfish he was, how audacious it was of him to take, take, take, and never give back. this was the least he could do, to at least be supportive of his boyfriend’s success.

the word _boyfriend_ still felt unnatural on his lips; every time he spoke with zayn about harry, or had to introduce himself as harry’s boyfriend, or introduced harry as his boyfriend, a voice screamed at him. it would scream _unworthy, unworthy, unworthy_. he’d wonder if that was what everyone was thinking when they saw the two; a man whose soul was the coming of spring itself, the blooming of flowers, having to be put beside _him_ , who he just _knew_ that everyone knew that he was the very force that makes beautiful things rot, something not worth harry’s presence.

“i know what you’re thinking,” a voice said behind him, making louis jump a bit out of his seat. normally, he was much more attentive to sounds approaching him, but his thoughts were so loud, crashing and receding in his mind that he hadn’t noticed harry’s footsteps. “i won’t let anyone hurt you. i swear on my life.”

“that’s not—“

“you’re worried about it. even if you say you aren’t, i know you are. the place will be swimming with security, love. i told them to watch after you especially.”

“you _what_?”

“i know. i knew you wouldn’t like it, and i wasn’t planning on telling you, but _fuck,_ lou. i can’t keep anything from you. you know that.”

“i don’t need that, haz. i know you care and i appreciate it. i just don’t want to be _babied._ i’m an adult who can take care of myself. and whatever happens, happens. i’ll take it.” he felt heat rise to his cheeks, knowing what his words were implying and how harry would take them, but he didn’t stop them from spilling out like they were made of feathers, falling through the air ever-so-slowly and painfully, filling harry’s nose and mouth and throat.

“say that when you can actually take care of yourself.” harry snapped, before his eyes widened at the sharpness of his own words and he retraced his steps quickly. “shit, i’m sorry, lou. that’s not what i meant to say. i just, i just really want you to stay safe.”

“i’m not going to combust from a night out.”

“i know. i just thought it might make you calmer to know that i have people watching.”

“i don’t want anyone _watching_ me, harry. what if i need something to drink?”

the younger boy was taken aback, and his eyes had paled a bit as the clouds allowed more moonlight through. “then get something to drink? it’s not that serious.”

“i don’t like it when people watch me eat or drink. it’s embarrassing,” he whispered. “and just in general, they’re probably all thinking that i’m pathetic or something, needing to be watched over. or that i think i’m hot shit or something, to think that as soon as i step out in public, people want their dicks up my ass.”

“no one’s thinking that.”

“just go back to bed, love. you have a big day tomorrow. today, i guess,” louis glanced at the grandfather clock that the last owner had left with the house, which they decided to keep. “it’s half past three. are you crazy?”

“the gig is in the evening. i have all the time in the world. besides, you’ve been awake all this time, haven’t you?”

“yeah. what about it?”

“you need sleep, too. you think too much about me, and not enough about yourself.”

“it’s quite the opposite,” he laughed dryly under his breath, not intending for harry to hear, but the taller boy caught his words midair, anyway.

“it’s true. you keep saying that i take care of you too much, but that’s just want a relationship is. hell, _friendship,_ even. i just want to support you through everything.”

“that’s not your responsibility. you’re tiring yourself out.”

“i’m fucking _not,_ louis. it’s more tiring that you keep pushing me away.”

he pursed his lips, looking down again. he couldn’t meet those eyes, he knew, or he would cry. and he couldn’t cry. not here, not now. “sorry. i’m working on it. i promise. just, it gets old, and i know it does. so i’m wanting to make things easier on you.”

"please do so by being transparent, and _actually_ moving forward instead of just hiding it. i know it's hard, baby. but i _know_ you can do this."

louis pressed his lips together and smiled in the best, most assuring way he could. "i will. let's go back to bed now."

and the gig did go smoothly; more than smoothly, if anything. it was a big success, and widely received by the audience. so much so, in fact, that the nightclub harry performed at had asked him to come again in a couple of weeks due to his popularity with the women.

upon entering the place, louis felt his blood run cold at the liveliness of it all. everything was dimly lit with purple strobe lights, which, alone, was enough to make him nauseous. it was flowing with people of that seemed high on the social ladder; women in sequined dresses, speaking elegantly with champagne flutes full of the sparkling substance, men with ties and gel in their hair and bright white teeth.

all the nausea dissipated it after harry showed up on stage, though, with his striking black suit and red bowtie. he had his guitar strapped to him, and _fuck, since when did he look so charming?_

of course, louis knew that harry was attractive, he'd known all this time, but under these lights, he looked like an entity dropped off right from the gates of heaven. so when the nervous set of green eyes laid onto _him_ , he felt himself goosebumps erupt on the back of his neck, like he'd fallen in love all over again.

and the music made things so, so much worse. the first song that came was _look after you_ by the fray, then stevie wonder's _isn't she lovely, heart of gold_ by neil young, _i will wait_ by mumford & sons. at the end of each song, louis would find himself beaming at the boy, forgetting about everything but the scene in front of him, hoping to capture it and hold it close to his heart forever. he prayed that no matter what happened, this night wouldn't escape him. even if he and harry ended up getting nowhere, even if harry ended up rightfully leaving him for something better.

the night came to an end with harry performing his own single and announcing the release date of his album, which even louis hadn't known until then: exactly two weeks from then. the vast majority of the audience didn't know who harry was before this night but had given him a standing ovation while murmuring about how good he was, as he quickly stepped offstage. it wasn't quite a stage at all, rather, a corner of the room portioned out, provided with a drum set and mic stand. louis didn't allow even two seconds to pass before he rushed over to the boy, and enveloped him in his arms. they struggled to fit completely around harry’s shoulders considering the height difference, but he truly felt like their bodies fit together. this is where they belonged; against each other.

"you sounded amazing out there," louis breathed, face still tucked into harry's chest. it didn't matter who saw, or what people thought. at that moment, all that mattered to him was that they were together, and he felt it in his bones and in his flesh and in his soul. "you look amazing, too. i wish i were there to help you get ready and stuff."

"they had some people do my makeup. it felt kind of embarrassing."

"well, you look stunning, and i think whatever makes you feel moat confident suits you the best. like that one time you painted your nails? you should do it again."

harry ran his fingers through the ocean boy's hair, tracing his fingers along the curves of his back; careful to stop before reaching anywhere beneath the waist. louis always had this effect on him, ebbing away at his uncertainty and anxiety, like he had power over the seemingly all-powerful waves. "people made fun of me for that."

"the people that matter are the ones who'll support you."

"like you?"

"like me."

"i hope you know that everything i sing, i sing thinking of you." harry said gently.

"i love when you sing. i love when you sing to make me feel better when i feel shit." he thought of the days he'd spend wondering what it was that he must have done in his past life that was so filthy, that soap couldn't wash off, to harbor these feelings in his chest. harry would always hold him tightly and sing to him until things became lighter, until there was nothing inside of him except for _harryharryharry._ he thought about how he'd imagine the lyrics to be dragged across his chest and how maybe _then,_ he'd believe them. but they couldn't be, so he would just hold harry closer and remind himself that it was the boy by his side who had went to the trouble to craft him the shovel to dig himself out of his own demise.

harry had to speak a bit with his manager before leaving, who had been more than pleased with his performance. he was a refined-looking man with dark hair and dark eyes, by the name of jeff azoff. louis couldn't help but notice judgmental glances being thrown at him after him and harry's embrace, as well as a protective arm around the curly-haired boy. he sincerely hoped that he was simply imagining things—just because he often told himself that he wasn't good enough for harry hadn't meant that having the fact _confirmed_ by someone else wouldn't hurt.

the manager didn’t need him for anything else, so the two boys were free to go home together. harry, during the entire drive, was chattering about nervous he was, how _good_ he felt, how _at home_ he was, despite not being in louis’ arms. it was a lonely thing, the ocean boy thought, but regardless, he was happy. this really was where harry belonged; on the stage and out for the world to see. he needed to catch up. he needed to get past the wall he’d hit writing his novel; he had to finish, soon enough, at least, for harry to not grow impatient and leave. his own success was right around the corner, if he’d just try.

his novel wasn’t getting anywhere; it’d stopped after he stopped going to therapy, he realized. it’d been five weeks since it’s made any real progression. it was historical fiction, set in new york during the roaring twenties, leading up to the great depression. he wasn’t particularly fond of history, but when it came to that time period, he was enamored; he’d always been enamored, in a sense. it wasn’t a coincidence that he studied in new york after living in doncaster all his life; he read about it as a child and saw it as the place where freedom was born. fresh out of mother england’s womb and all that.

it hadn’t been, of course. when he started living there, he realized that it was just as corrupted as the next place. lady liberty kept everyone at arm’s length, it seemed.

the memories of new york hadn’t been as bitter as they were before. his memories at moma, at the library, at times square, were now all full of lively green eyes and toothy smiles. his days with jean suddenly felt so far away. and they were, in a sense. he didn’t even know whether jean vautour was still of this world, alive, breathing. he didn’t know who he was or what he looked or smelled like anymore, despite having spent nearly every waking second with him for two straight years.

but it was painful, it its own way. he missed what they had before everything got bad, and it’d been so long that the good had bled into the ugly, and he hardly even remembered what was so bad about that relationship in the first place. had he been making things up all along? had he been using jean and matthew as a scapegoat for his shitty, selfish emotions? because if none of it had been real, then what validity did his feelings have? why did he feel what he did, when his life was so perfect, with the perfect man and perfect parents and enough money to go by?

he felt harry squeeze his hand, which held a death grip on the steering wheel.

“babe,” the younger boy said softly, “we’ll get through this, yeah? thanks for supporting me today. and all this time.”

“yeah.” he’d been grounded by harry yet again. there was just _something_ about his presence, he realized, that could make clear the unclear. something that harry had, that no one else did. not zayn, not his mother, not tom.

“i’ll be with you every step of the way.”

he didn’t know if harry meant this in regards to his career, to life, or to his recovery, but it made something rupture inside him, releasing this warmth he never thought he had inside of him. “yeah,” he repeated, unable to sort through the plethora of words in his throat that failed to make it to his tongue. “thank you. so much.”


	49. he'll decide to burn bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you are the sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mention of sexual abuse , eating disorder , self harm 
> 
> sorry if this is bad, i'm deciding kind of where to go. let me know what you think. maybe my fic is kind of fizzling out, i feel like? not sure. i hope it's not just straight awful. probably going to hit chapter sixty or something and wrap up. 
> 
> how are you all?? i'm curious. also comments make me really happy so a;dkjflskajd pleading face
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

for louis, it was _a clockwork orange_ that made him first question the duality of human existence. the good and the bad, commitment and neutrality, man and machine. he always wondered if it was a conscious decision that matthew made, to touch a child in ways that normal people couldn't even imagine. if jean had really wanted to _hurt_ him like he did, to humiliate him and pull him apart like he was made of thin plastic, disposable. worthless. he wondered if they regretted it at all. if, when matthew died, louis was part of the clips of his life flashing before his eyes. if, when louis died, all he would be reminded of is his trauma. if it could be called trauma at all.

a man, after all, is free to choose whether to be moral or not; that is what makes him human. which meant, by extension, that both morality and immorality were inherently human. jean and matthew are, and were human all along, doing what they did. made with the same flesh and teeth and blood and hair as him.

how was humanity and freedom and morality measured anyway? what proved that they held any actual meaning at all, and weren't just words that pretentious white men tacked meanings onto to make them feel like they lived a virtuous lifestyle?

it’s frustrating, louis thought, that all man does is try too hard to find the meaning of life when theories can never be proved correct or incorrect; it is all just false closure for a false sense of justice.

tom, was playing a record on a glossy-black turntable, dancing with gold embellishments. it wasn’t unpleasantly loud, but loud enough to cover up the noises of a screaming patient a few rooms down. _appalachian spring,_ harry whispered, for just louis to hear as the office door tore open and allowed the sound to resonate inside of the three of them as they entered.

"so," tom said, placing his hands on his knees and leaning forward attentively, "why don't we get started, if you're comfortable, louis. we can speak and harry is here for moral support."

"right." he swallowed, glancing at the younger boy, who was nodding reassuringly beside him. "i... i don't know where to start."

"we don't have to start off so heavy. you've just been alluding to things that seem unprocessed and i think it's important to process them for the sake of closure, at least. but this is your space, louis. we go at your pace."

clarinet played gently in the background, dark tone and elegant timbre caressing him, as if whispering at him to _breathe,_ that he could do this, that it would feel so much better. "that's alright. i'm doing okay. i just... i needed harry to hold me accountable, i guess. and he makes things easier to talk about, especially since he already knows." tom only nodded, so he continued. "i guess there's something that can be seen as the root of my problems. well, maybe not the root, but a part of it. a big part of it. but i don't even know if it's _okay_ to feel this way or not. i don't hold any resentment for anyone or anything that happened. i'm just scared. and maybe it was _me._ i am the common denominator, after all. i'm complaining but everything might have very well been my own fault. i- sorry. i don't know."

“you don’t have to know yet. it’s alright, love.” harry said, squeezing his partner’s knee. “but _never_ say that it’s your fault. everything that happened was very, very real. nothing can change that. your feelings are real.” his eyes met tom’s gray ones, startled by their clarity and quiet courage. “sorry. i didn’t mean to interject. not my job today, is it?” he chuckled.

“that’s quite alright, harry. it’s nice to meet you finally after hearing so much about you. and louis was right, from what i can tell; you’re very supportive.”

louis nodded eagerly. harry was _his,_ despite everything. “he is,” he added, “more than anything i ever hoped for.”

“you two work well together. to start on a lighter note, how did you meet, if you don’t mind?”

the ocean boy slowly told the story of the pub’s grimy bathroom floor and how he fell into harry’s arms, and how _prickly_ he was when they first met (what happened?). the music marked time as it passed in the background—the moderato section transitioned seamlessly into vivace. tom listened attentively as harry struggled so as to not get sucked in too far past the threshold of reality, planting his soles into the ground. it was louis’ voice, hypnotic and warm despite its unique timbre, that meshed so well with the sound of a violin dancing about with no care in the world. sickening, but he completely understood why jean was so adamant on sharing _violin,_ out of everything there was, with the boy.

it was days like these, when that first night would replay over and over again in his head, and he’d fall and fall and fall, remembering the emptiness of the sky, of their hearts, and wonder, when was it that they had become full again? was it a single point in time or did the gods present them with a fait accompli, a with predisposition, with an unalterable destiny?

whatever it was, he hoped that it would remain their destiny for the remainder of the time he spent in shackled to the ground.

he hadn’t noticed until halfway past the story, that louis had begun talking about matthew and the closet and how _dead_ he sounded, how much he was shaking. all this time, harry had just been spacing out, completely unaware of what was going on around him. immediately, he took the ocean boy’s hand and clutched it firmly against his palm, praying that he could convey all these feelings that’d suddenly welled up in his just through just the collision of skin.

if hearing it all one time seemed like all too much, the second time wasn’t any better. it was unnervingly demanding, both physically and mentally, just to listen to. he couldn’t imagine what it felt like to actually be the one to tell the story, not to mention _experience_ it all.

louis was much more vague this time through, constrained by the time window of the therapy session. he could have split the stories of matthew and jean into two different sessions, but he chose not to, understandably. a lot of the reason was because louis didn’t want to take any more of harry’s time by dragging him here, though harry himself hadn’t really minded. but he didn’t want to make the boy relive the horror more times than he had to. or, selfishly, he didn’t want to watch louis shake in anticipation for having to retell everything more times than necessary.

it took only forty-five minutes to get through it all, save for the gruesome details. tom knew that jean had hit louis and that matthew had raped him (the word still tasted sour and felt wrong in both boys’ mouths) and that he was raped yet again recently; but he didn’t know about how jean pressed louis to the glass like it was some kind of crucifixion, he didn’t know how matthew made him repeat _i love you_ until it meant nothing, he didn’t know how, when he was touched like that again, he took it quietly and silently, like it was his sole duty.

louis did add, though, that he wondered if his life was the most meaningful back when he was a child, because at least _then,_ he endured silently and thus beautifully, like a doll. it would drip down his thighs like proof that he was dirty yet meaningful. like how a dog marked its territory, louis said, he felt that matthew marked him for life.

harry was astonished at how tom held onto his composure throughout the entire telling. he wrote and wrote, which he could tell bothered louis a little, though not enough to make him want to stop talking, but tom never needed a break like harry did, the first time he heard it all. tom didn’t cry or interrupt or close his eyes to absorb all the information—he just listened intently and jotted down notes here and there.

when louis stopped, harry felt himself deflate, all the tension being relieved from his body. gray eyes studied them both, in such a way that was so observant and steady, the younger boy wondered if tom was a machine, after all. he would definitely speak with louis about what he thought about the man after they got home, he thought.

“so?” tom said, chin shimmying with the sudden movement, and looked to harry. “you were aware of all this?”

“yes.” he said, mouth dry from the length which he had it clamped tightly shut. it tasted like he’d just woken up from sleep, and that this emersion into louis’ world was but a nightmare.

tom shifted his gaze to louis. “as far as i know, neither of those men have been convicted?”

“no, and i don’t plan to turn either of them in,” the ocean boy’s words were dripping with shame. “matthew is… matthew passed away a little while ago, and i don’t even know where jean is at this point. and for all i know, he could have been lying to me about his name all this time, and there could really not be a jean vautour walking this planet.”

“you could still get justice. the system is on your side.”

“i don’t care about the system. the system has failed me enough times. but that’s not the point. i don’t ever want to see those men again. i hope you understand that.”

"i understand," tom sighed. "well, i won't push your boundaries. i'm here to help you process things, not give unsolicited advice."

"right, and i appreciate that greatly."

"i just want you to know, that if your feelings about taking legal action ever change, it's not too late. and you deserve justice. although there's nothing wrong with giving yourself some time to heal first."

harry watched as the ocean boy's expression contorted into one of self-hatred. the way it twisted made him think that his chest was twisting right along with it. it strained itself into shapes that were impossibly unnatural, and he realized just how _connected_ he and louis truly were. "it's been years. i should be very much over it. i'm... i _am_ over it, to an extent."

"don't give yourself those 'shoulds' and 'should nots'. they're not helpful, and everyone's pace is different. the wounds are fresher than you think; if all that you've been doing for them is pretending that they're not there, rather than caring for them and acknowledging their severity," tom said, sternly. "do you think all has contributed to your self-harm and to your eating disorder?"

harry's ears perked up. he hadn't asked about this piece of it so directly, in fear that it was far too personal, and hadn't expected tom to, either. but if the answer was going to be revealed anyway, then he would gladly listen. "i don't know. i started cutting myself when i was around twelve, still in secondary school. matthew, for the most part, was out of the picture, and i was so busy with taking care of my sisters while my mother was gone that i didn't have much to ruminate, anyway. but it felt good and made me feel better. it was what taught me that i was allowed to exist, i guess. and, well, i guess it was jean that first told me that i was disgusting. i'd thought about it before but never so extensively. the... the eating problem didn't start until after the fact, though, when the memories would swarm like bees and all i wanted was a feeling i could hold onto; this was when cutting didn't _do_ anything for me anymore, and i needed something more, something tangible." he was speaking toward only harry at this point, feet pointed toward the younger boy and face still pointed straight down, like there had been text on the floor, and he was trying to decipher its meaning. "i guess i got so wrapped up in that control that i became obsessed with the numbers, too. i realized how inadequate my body is, and how much i want proof that i _could,_ you know? it's embarrassing. it's a teenage girls' problem. but i want to be thin, and even now, now that i'm _huge_ again, _nothing_ feels right. i feel so indulgent and disgusting and _dirty_ all the time."

"that—“

before tom could finish his sentence, louis' face paled and he interrupted the early formation of the man's sentence. "god, fuck. i'm sorry. i didn't mean to talk so much or to say so much. you probably think i'm crazy."

"this is your space, louis," tom said, writing more. it was a marvel that his pen hadn't run out of ink yet. "you're allowed to speak and get things out. and i'm grateful that you feel comfortable enough to be honest. it's hard, i know, but you're doing it."

as more was said, despite it all being positive, more guilt became apparent on louis' face. he said nothing, so harry cut in. "what should i do? what can i do to help?"

"well," tom sighed, "you've probably been doing this, but i advise you to remove all sharps from the house for now. louis might be a little difficult at first, but it'll be good in the long run. you've been following the meal plan given to you by dr. reid?"

harry nodded, looking at louis, who he assumed to be pouting in the corner about being treated like a child again. "yes. i've been trying to enforce it more strictly."

"continue doing that; right now, building good habits is crucial."

the ocean boy's guilt did not recede-- his eyes only darkened and he shrunk even further against himself. "i think," harry said, glancing worriedly over at shaking hands and shaking shoulders, "i think this is enough for today."

"agreed. we have passed the regular hour mark, anyway. i just didn't say anything because i didn't mind and because i don't have any more clients after this. i care about you, louis," tom continued, "as a client and just as a person. i want to see you get better."

louis' lips pressed together to form a tight smile. "thank you for being understanding."

the silence of the drive home was covered by the soft murmurings of an astronomy podcast, which both boys were only half-listening to. the voice of an old man drawling on and on about the stars made good background noise for their loud, overwhelming thoughts.

"nova. new star. it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" the raspy voice said. it had the timbre of one of the sleepy afternoons louis remembered spending in lecture halls at nyu. "it was a star before, but it suddenly decides to burn brighter. and there are some, plenty, actually, of weird, variable novas. the ones that don't burn in the traditional variable way. like eta carinae. it wasn't particularly noticeable until the 1830s. decided to do the opposite of betelgeuse, and it became brighter than rigel. second brightest star in our sky now, just like sirius."

they pulled into their driveway and the sun was quietly setting, pink light bleeding through louis’ eyelashes and made his eyes this new, golden color. harry wondered if he could ever find hand-dipped glass of that color, or if he could reach his fingers into the boy’s sockets and keep them for himself.

“lou?” he whispered, “i learned some things about you today.”

“yeah.”

“you are doing so well, love. thanks for letting me in.”

“yeah.”

it was sappy and stupid in the worst way possible, but they held each other like it was the end of the world. the trees were no longer flowering, harry noticed, but that was alright because the boy in his arms was all he needed.

he thought about the podcast and wondered _why_ stars decided to suddenly burn brighter. there was definitely a scientific explanation for it, but he liked to think it was due to some kind of beautiful phenomena; one that marked the beginning of a new era. and for him and louis, this was it, he thought. this was _their_ time.


	50. say it with dignity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> with the moon's phases

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// eating disorder , mentions of self harm , mentions of sex
> 
> hi this is bad sorry bad 50th chapter sorry fuck hahahahahhahah. please leave comments they are my fuel
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

it was after the second time he had to speak of his past in front of harry that he remembered again that harry didn't have a complex relationship with sex like he did. harry saw it as something pleasurable, desirable, beautiful—as most healthy people would. it wasn't that louis didn't know that sex is something so crucial to relationships, he did. but he also knew that it wasn't something he could readily provide.

and he hated that part of himself.

he hated the part of himself that told harry everything about what'd happened to him and what he done. he hated the part of himself that shook as harry's hands even suggested faring anywhere close to between his legs.

somehow, he wanted to find ways to repay harry. for robbing him of the joy that usually came apart of being young and having a relationship.

he woke at three a.m. exactly one week after they had the talk together with tom. this week, he went by himself again, but had trouble stringing into words what he really felt. he described what hurting himself meant to him, and how he couldn't see himself stopping. but if it meant making things easier on harry, he was willing to at least try to make it less frequent or hide it better.

when he came to, he was surprised that he even fell asleep in the first place. it'd been weeks since he was able to sleep before four, and the fatigue was really beginning to take a toll on him. it was thursday, and he hadn't used up the one-day-a-week pass he allowed himself to hold harry tightly whenever he wished for someone to rip him apart.

so he did, and felt the warmth radiating off the boy transfer to his cold skin, which he couldn't quite understand _why_ it was cold. he had been sweating so much, from who knows what, since he didn't remember dreaming about anything.

sometimes, his dreams were gentle arms that he feared would strike down upon him, sometimes he would even _hope_ that they would. but not these arms, these arms would inch closer to him, slowly and unthreateningly, and lay gently on his head and shoulders. _you're safe_ , they would say.

the next night, he found himself pressed up against harry again, despite already having done so the night before. he didn't know what it was in him and he couldn't really conjure the energy to find it in himself to figure it out, so he allowed himself this, if nothing else. he allowed himself to curl up against harry's chest and feel his arms around him again, half-conscious fingers stumbling through his tangled hair and damp back.

the warmth made the feelings inside of him burn even brighter and stronger than ever before—not just the ones that loved harry, but the ones that craved harry's nails to dig deep into his skin, as well. the ones that told him that he didn't deserve this kindness, that craved for someone to treat him like the scum he is.

louis wanted to peel himself out of the sheets to administer the pain that no one else would, but he knew that harry would wake at his moving out of bed after he'd already established their places against each other. he missed jean more than anything, in that moment. he missed how jean would treat him like he had no place in the world, like he was an unsightly stain on a beautiful painting.

something chained him down, though. a force larger than just the fear of disturbing harry. it was exhaustion, he recognized. something that told him, _aren't you tired of doing this to yourself? aren't you tired of not allowing yourself anything?_

but wouldn't trying to be happy be even more tiring? wouldn't that be far more unrealistic? wouldn't that be overstepping his bounds and reaching out for a world that he knew he had no place in?

he had no idea. he had no idea whether happiness was just an urban legend told by the delusional, or if it was something actually achievable. but in the moment, he bathed in his craving for pain and allowed it to reach its crests and troughs, all until it mellowed down into a single flat line. he imagined those urges to be troubled souls that the gods eventually harvested from his chest to will the feelings to pass.

and they did, surprisingly. he hadn't actually expected them to pass like everyone told him they would. for the first time in a while, he realized, he felt comfortable at night, in bed, after being jolted awake. it wasn't heaviness that set in his bones, but this floating feeling.

"harry?" he whispered, which had startled him, because he hadn't intended to allow the thought to venture past his lips.

the boy didn't respond, to louis' relief. the last thing he wanted was to disturb him when he had meetings the next day regarding the album. the release date was rolling closer and closer, and harry was growing more and more restless. every minute of sleep, louis knew, was precious.

he felt this exigence coursing through his veins suddenly, pumping directly from his chest. it was a feeling that wasn't foreign to him; it had the same nature as the force that urged him to pull apart his skin. but this time, it was to write. he'd been at a wall for so long, feeling this way made him almost believe it was the end of the world.

he would have gotten up to scratch all his ideas down on paper, but _curse his eyelids,_ he thought, as they grew heavier and heavier with each breath. it wasn't long until he was completely pulled under, seduced by a thick layer of white coming over him and by harry's incoherent mid-dream mumbles.

he woke again to an empty bed, which scared him at first. his first thought was that maybe harry had gotten tired of dealing with him, and that he’d had enough. the worries were put to rest at the sound of the whirr of the vent hood and the sizzle of heat against oil. some kind of sausage, he smelled, which made him feel sick. meat was never something that he did well with, and especially so early in the morning. it was growing frustrating, with how difficult eating remained. he hadn’t been purging and the cuts and blisters that he once thought were going to be permanently embed on his knuckles had been on the fade, but the urges weren’t gone and he didn’t hate himself any less.

recovery, he realized, if what he was undergoing could even be considered as such, didn’t mean the thoughts or urges would go away like everyone told him. he’d try and try and try, but at the end of the day he’d still find himself craving the empty feeling, chasing this high he’d never achieve again.

and here he was, eating harry’s food like someone who hadn’t struggled with eating at all, and he questioned whether, if all this time, he was faking it. harry beamed at him so proudly when he finished his food and sat unmoving on the bar stool, unable to will his legs to take him to where his mind begged him to go. he wanted to wipe the smile off of harry’s face like it was some kind of mistake, like he wanted to prove to the boy, _i am still sick, i want to be sick, sickness is all i am, i don’t know myself without my illness._

but he couldn’t muster out the words. the thoughts that festered inside of him felt so first-world and embarrassing; laughable for a full-grown man like him.

he remembered the inspiration he found last night, and rushed to his notebook like he hadn’t just been frozen and bound to his chair by anxiety. he feared that once again, all his ideas would slip right between his fingers, but they hadn’t. if anything, after eating, they felt stronger and clearer. everything did, he noticed. the world felt much steadier beneath his feet compared to before. was this what health felt like?

in the most fucked up way possible, he thought, he missed the unsteadiness, the uncertainty. it gave him a rush of adrenaline; the same one that he would always feel when he’d run a blade over his wrist—one that he felt when he knew that he was dancing back and forth between the threshold of real danger.

he doubted that his ideas would remain salient by the time he reached his notebook and began spilling everything onto paper.

but they had.

he wrote and wrote and wrote until he couldn't feel anything from his wrist to the tips of his first three fingers, but he hadn't regretted a thing. harry would always ask him why he wrote everything on pen and paper when typing it all, either on his phone or on a laptop would be worlds quicker and more convenient. truth be told, louis didn't exactly have an answer. he liked imagining the ink flowing from the pen onto paper like it the pen were his own heart pumping blood through his veins.

the next time he looked at the clock was when he realized he'd run out of room in his notebook, which had started only two-thirds of the way full. two hours had passed, and harry was gone, off to a meeting, and he didn't even remember saying goodbye to the boy, or, quite frankly, he didn't remember the boy leaving his side at all.

it'd been months since he wrote this much in one sitting, and he couldn't even understand what it was about the past week that had sparked this sudden brainwave, but he accepted it all wholeheartedly. this is what he'd been waiting for; for his characters to move on their own accord, dragging the tip of his pen under their guidance (while still allowing him to take command over them at times), and bring everything _alive._ the story had been dead for so long, he thought, that maybe he'd have to scrap it, and start anew. of course, starting anew wasn't a _bad_ thing per se, but he'd grown so connected with the story and intertwined so much of his own personal thinking into this prose, he knew that if he let this go, he'd be letting go a portion of himself. he'd leave a part of him in the heart of it all.

harry returned to the ocean boy flipping quickly through drawers, as if looking for something, and felt his chest momentarily collapse before inflating again.

"what are you looking for?" he asked, carefully approaching louis.

"a notebook. used up my last one."

"oh, i think i put your empty ones in the third drawer down. your shit is an absolute mess, i hope you know that."

the boy snorted and shook his head with mock dismay. "of course you would move my things, harry. i appreciate the sentiment, but it's all organized clutter. i remember where i leave things, i'll have you know."

"like hell you do. you lose shit all the time. the way i set things up, it's functional _and_ looks nice."

"i disagree, but i'll let it slide this time," their eyes met again, contrasting hues bouncing so deeply off each other, harry swore that he felt time shatter before for just a millisecond before the cracks resealed. "because _you're_ functional and look nice."

it was a wonder, how the younger boy managed to get louis' heart racing and rocketing toward the sky so often, despite the two spending nearly all of their time together. and louis forgot, momentarily, what exactly it was he was looking for and why he'd been looking. it was the bright, golden light, he reckoned, that outshone everything else and urged him to drop absolutely everything to feel harry in his arms for just a second longer. "i'm glad for you baby," harry whispered. "i hope to see a novel out soon from you. you write bestseller-worthy work, darling. it's just a matter of time."

"that's not true. you haven't even read anything i've wrote."

"wrong. i've read some or your random little pieces or poems. the way you convey meaning is beautiful," he said. "i know it. have i ever been wrong?"

"plenty of times, harold," louis laughed. "but i guess i'll take your word on it. don’t forget that you’ve not time to think about me, though. album release is in a week."

"speaking of which," he said, this time softer and slower than usual, "i'm going to the bar with my producers and band and such the night before the release. there’s a gig the day of; a bit shorter than the last one, but there’ll be more people there, probably. at a venue. afterward, niall, liam, and i were planning on clubbing. you should come along. i don’t think you’ve met liam before? you don’t have to. i just think it’d be nice for you to have some fun every once in a while, you know. you can even bring zayn, if you want.”

“i don’t know if he would like that,” louis replied, scratching the tip of his nose. “but i’ll ask him just for fun.”

“i’m sure he’ll say yes, especially if you’re the one asking. if i asked, he’d just ghost me.”

“i didn’t know you’ve been talking to him. but if you told him that it’s to celebrate your debut album, he’d definitely come. that’s the kind of person he is.”

“i guess so,” harry didn’t notice himself grabbing the ocean boy’s hand, but somehow, their fingers were intertwined now. “so? what do you say? want to come?”

“of course i’ll come. as long as you don’t hire security guards to go drinking with us. i mean, i’m sure they’d be wonderful company while niall’s puking into a sewer in the parking lot, but none of that, please. promise me that, styles, and i’m down.”

it was a running joke between them, since after the first gig. most of their arguments went that way; it’d be heated in the moment, but eventually the fire would die and leave just ashes of their original emotions, for both boys to wonder what it’d been that made them so angry in the first place.

“wasn’t planning on it,” the younger boy rolled his eyes. “and niall’s quite the drinker, for sure. it’s the irish in him. he holds his alcohol well.”

“i figured.” they fell silent, allowing the moment to come over them until louis finally let out the question that’d been a constant ebb of his mind since the very first day they met, intensity waxing and waning like that of the moon cycles. “ _weshouldhavesex_.” his words came out as a single string of hardly intelligible nonsense, but harry had decoded it anyway, to the ocean boy’s dismay.

“i know you feel like you have to, babe,” he said gently, letting go of louis’ hand for a moment to pull the entire boy in close to him. “but you don’t. i’m not some kind of sex fiend.”

“but it’s been months. we’re dating. normally, that’s what you’d expect, no? and it’s what we were going to do… the first night. so.”

“don’t get me wrong, i’d happily do it, if you wanted to. but i don’t want to force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable doing. i want something like that to be beautiful, intimate. you know? like something we share enjoyment in. sex isn’t just fucking, at least the way i like to think about it. it’s… it’s making love. and you’ve never made love before. you’ve been fucked, sure. but i’d like to do that with you someday. show you what it feels like.”

louis flinched, feelings waves of anxiety threatening to spill over the dam that he’d built so high. “y-yeah. maybe we can do that.” _endure, endure, endure, endure._

“not now, god. not now. lou, i love you so much. i want to cherish you.”

“don’t you ever get… don’t you ever get horny?” he whispered shyly.

harry was trying to hold back his laughter, but failed miserably. “lou, i—“ an explosive guffaw interrupted his sentence. “of course i get horny. but fuck, my hope for your wellbeing burns so much brighter. besides, me and my right hand are getting along fine, no?”

“’my right hand and i,’” louis retorted wetly, pouting. the air was a bit lighter, thank god.

“whatever. my right hand and i.” the younger boy sighed at the ridiculousness of the situation. “i know how hard it is for you, babe. i can go for longer. we can figure something out if you are ever ready. and it doesn’t have to be soon, or ever. remember that.”

“i’m sorry.”

“you have nothing to apologize for.”


	51. hemimetaboly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my sanity waxes and wanes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of past trauma , mentions of eating disorder , mentions of self harm
> 
> i actually quite like this chapter. we're wrapping up (kind of). i like writing about hurt and grief and pain but i also find myself happy to write about just nature and colors and beauty and music and literature. sorry that everything is so ooc. lmk what you think. 
> 
> i iterated this on my twitter, but i plan to take a little more time to be careful in the final chapters. and throughout next week, on the weekdays, i may upload less frequently because i want to take the time to correct the first fifty chapters before ending this all!
> 
> next story is going to be based off of childhood. childhood friend au and all that. i love writing about memories and i love figuring out what tenses to write in. 
> 
> things are getting kind of better for the people who care? like my brain isn't being much nicer to me, but i really don't want to be sent to like, iop or php again. idek how that would work, because when i did it for my eating disorder, everything was so heavily centered around distress tolerance after meals, i can't imagine just sitting there and actually having to talk about my feelings all day. so i'm doing my best to avoid it. 
> 
> don't be like me, though. seek help if you need it. it does actually help if you allow it to. my dms are open. 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

it was already may, he realized, when the wind hit his face and it wasn't cold in the slightest. a pleasant breeze, really; one that made uncut blades of grass sweep back and forth, imitating waves on a calm sea.

he thought about how much time had passed, how much had happened in such a short window. it all made time and space seem less real, more fabricated, uncontrollable.

the venue was outside. harry prayed that the weather would be compliant, and it was. perfect, really. better than he could ever ask for.

it was small, but larger than the first gig. there were people there for _him,_ who knew that _he_ was performing and decided to come. the thought alone was daunting yet terribly flattering for the boy, and just put more pressure on him to do well. this was the first time the world would be exposed to his album, as it was going to drop as soon as his performance ended. strategic marketing at its finest, he thought.

he and louis had to get there a few hours before he was actually scheduled to start, just to set up some technical things, like speakers and mics. harry spoke briefly with his band about some procedural bits before warming up his voice and running through the set list. louis finally was able to get plenty of time to sit and admire the boy, never having had the luxury before to simply peacefully observe him while he was being all professional with red-lipped beauticians pawing him and fixing his hair and adjusting his clothes.

 _what was there to fix?_ louis remembered thinking, even after the first gig when harry had mentioned the makeup that'd been caked all over his cheeks.

and it wasn't exactly _fixing_ any of his features rather than emphasizing the beautiful shape of his face, he grew to realize, further accentuated in the better lighting that the sun provided as it shone onto the stage at an angle, pleasantly soaking through the plains which the stage was erected.

he sat beneath a willow tree beside the stage, and the branches held themselves heavily atop the air, wind suspending the leaves before letting them droop again. these days made it especially easy for words to pour out of his pen. he could feel the stillness ensnaring him into its embrace, and by the time he returned from the deepest orifices of his mind, more time would have passed than he'd prepared himself for.

"lou!" harry called from the stage, probably a hundred or so meters from where louis was. his mouth moved emphatically and confidently, but the sound of the gale covered up his words.

when louis stood up, he realized that his legs were soft. _how long had he been sitting there?_ there was ink smeared all over his hands; this bright red (since the only pen he could find before they had to leave was red), which reminded him of the times he found himself splitting open veins on the bathroom floor. but this time, the smell wasn’t metallic or tragic—it was soft and beautiful and organic, like how the willow danced and the grasses swayed. he stumbled as his feet took him to the boy across the field calling his name, like the ground under his feet was foreign, like he never learned to walk as a child. harry was moving toward him too, silhouette growing larger and larger until the two boys finally met, colliding into each other’s chests with the great force that reminded them: god, they belonged to each other.

they kissed, allowing harry’s entire crew to watch from afar as they interacted wordlessly in the center of the barren field that’d soon be filled (hopefully) with people. _you’ve got this,_ louis hoped was conveyed through his lips to the younger boy, _i’ll be here._

and it went ever better than anyone could have hoped. harry’s voice carried brightly like a songbird through the air, as the bustling of the audience was lost in the deep grass and vast sky. the light and dark shades of the grass as it broke the sunlight shining through it matched harry’s eyes, and louis could have sworn that there was something magical about the place, the willow tree. that maybe there was a spell cast upon them that day, that made him so free of his usual inhibitions and worries.

he felt for a second, this complete, utter closure come over him. it wasn’t the usual “happiness” he sought, where he would push away all the bad memories and pretend that they hadn’t happened, where he would imagine himself as thin as he wanted to be, where he would try to convince himself that he’d been living a normal life, a life which he hadn’t been _tainted._

but this was different. it was less denial of what happened, and more acceptance. this was something tom had tried to convince him to try in the past, radical acceptance, but it all just seemed so foolish at the time. as he sat among the crowd, all cheering and clapping for harry, he realized that he felt at peace. like something had lifted from his shoulders and from his soul; this lunacy that he didn’t know he had.

harry sang and sang and sang; most songs he’d heard before from harry’s room, but suddenly having them brought to life by a live band and a sound system made everything seem so much more dynamic; each note was full of color and emotion. truth be told, louis didn’t know that harry could _perform_ like that.

he had an amazing stage presence. he sang like he really enjoyed it, and interacted with the audience with so much vitality, it was like he’d been doing it his whole life, not pacing in a corner just an hour earlier and mumbling to himself about how nervous he was.

“this next song,” the silky voice said after _kiwi,_ which had this intense, high-energy rock beat to it, “is called _sweet creature._ it’s actually written about someone, someone whom i hold extremely dear. um, i don’t want to ramble too much. you’ll get what it’s about when you hear it.”

he bent over to set down his electric guitar, switching it for an acoustic, hair tousled by the wind. for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, louis thought, time collapsed.

he could feel the tears coming at just the first few notes from the guitar. it was a song that he recognized, that harry had sang to him on the evenings he’d break down after eating dinner, wishing to be taken by something, anything.

and his wish would be granted, but not in the way he originally thought. it wasn’t the grim reaper harvesting his soul, but rather, a certain curly-haired boy with soft green eyes that he thought would consume him. _“i’m here, lou,”_ harry would say, _“you’re safe. you’re safe. you’re safe.”_

and he was. the familiar lyrics and melody washed over him like proteus himself had ordered the tide to envelop his entire being. by the time harry reached the chorus, singing from his heart, the tears fell uncontrollably, dripping after clinging onto this eyelashes down his cheeks and nose and eventually soaked up by the soft cotton tee he was wearing.

after the event ended, there were a few girls that stayed after to speak with harry, who had seemed so adorably flustered that louis couldn't help but just watch. the days were getting longer; from the sun setting at five-thirty to now setting at almost seven, pinks and oranges bleeding through the hills as darkness began to show itself. it was five but it felt like noon, with where the sun was in the sky, tickling everyone with its rays.

the girls left, which allowed louis to meander back over to harry, who now had niall and liam hovering over him like flies. zayn, who was originally with them, walked over to the blue-eyed boy.

"i was looking for you earlier," zayn said, "figured you were here, after all."

"yeah, definitely. i was just sitting a bit further back, where less people were. caught some shade from the tree, as well."

"how've things been going? it's been, like, six months since..." he trailed off, eyes pulled away by the sight of a bird beating its wings far abobe the two.

"i'm alright. you know. better. sorry, again, that you had to see that. that you've had to deal with me and my problems for so long."

"i care about you, louis. don't forget that. let's head over to the superstar of today, then, shall we?" zayn continued, in attempt to lighten the mood. before louis could even open his mouth to respond, he felt his hand being pulled firmly toward the rest of the group, but not so much that it was painful.

"louis!" niall greeted, "and zayn, i presume? harry told me about you."

"nice to meet you," zayn said amicably. "niall and liam?"

"that's right!" liam, the taller male standing next to niall, who harry had mentioned in several stories before, smiled. he had this softness about him; the corners of his eyes pointing toward the ground. he reminded louis of a puppy, all excited with good intentions and a milky smile. "nice to meet you, zayn. and louis. i've heard a lot about you."

"and i, you," louis retorted jokingly. it was already a good start, he could tell, if they talked like they'd been friends for years. it was comforting.

all four of them helped harry in cleaning up the stage and the field. it was more of a mess than he thought, glossy plastic wrappers and clunky cans of beers and sodas adorning the ground like ornaments.

the sky above them was streaked with warmth by the time they were done, making zayn’s golden skin even more gold, accentuating niall’s gentle features, shining through harry’s curls and transforming them into waves of honey folding into itself, bringing out the flecks of different color in louis’ eyes, which harry was completely taken by.

“let’s get going now, i’m not getting any more sober dawdling around,” niall chirped. “the first bar awaits us.”

“ _first_ bar?” louis blanched, “there’s going to be several?”

“it’s a tradition of us boys,” liam added, “jump from bar to bar, you know. wander about the city as life continues moving around us but we remain as the same exact people we’ve been all these years.”

“oh, shut up. since when did you get all philosophical, payno?” harry said, “lou, we don’t have to, if you don’t want to. liam and niall are party animals enough, on their own. and who knows, zayn might have fun with them, too, after he gets to know them better.”

louis glanced at the tanned boy, tattoos brought out by the sun. “i’ll be okay,” he said. “zayn’s, um, not much of a bar person, i don’t think. so—“

“speak for yourself, tommo.” zayn interjected, “i forgot to mention this earlier, but liam and i have met. he’s a barista at a café i frequent.”

“hipster as ever, i see,” louis laughed, relieved that the mood was lifting. “art, coffee, philosophy, avocados. how snobbish can one get?”

“says you. all you talk about is shakespeare, shakespeare, shakespeare. if not shakespeare, it’s dazai or something. at least i’m not a nihilist.”

the two have always had this sort of relationship; one that made everyone else, in a sense, step away and simply admire their bickering. it wasn’t senseless bickering—always about some art or idea. as pretentious as one could get.

“alright, alright. you guys can talk about romeo and juliet sometime else. let’s get blackout drunk!” niall exclaimed, screaming at the sky like it would respond by dropping liquor on them all.

louis relished these moments. it’d been so long since he’d spent time with people like this, it felt surreal, but amazing in the same way. he forgot about how it felt to be _outside,_ and truly outside, not just wandering about aimlessly. people-watching in antique cafes had its own charm, but this was different. he wasn’t alone.

they were a very odd crowd. if they were still in high school, louis imagined, he’d be the type to be bullied by niall and liam and harry to no end, for being such a doormat. even during high school, he and zayn didn’t get along for the first year and a half, until they finally faced each other and realized that they were essentially the same person in several regards.

the first bar was right in the heart of london, assailing everyone who entered with flashing purple lights. it reminded louis eerily of that party on new year’s. he felt his resolve tremble for a moment before he clenched his teeth and his fists. _get through this. just get through this._

he felt an electric clap to his back and was shortly met by a chortling niall. he jumped, feeling his insides shift, as if preparing for some sort of violent penetration. “loosen up, tommo! here, have some booze,” he said, handing louis a large glass of beer; tan and foamy and a fresh, crisp cold in contrast to the sweatiness of the room. it was like he could see the calories that the drink held, down to its molecular makeup. he couldn’t help but shudder from disgust with himself, for even thinking about consuming something like that.

“no… no, i—“ he inhaled sharply. “i’m alright. thanks for the offer, though.”

harry had been whisked to the side by a dark-skinned woman in a golden bodycon dress, gently stroking his arm and smiling seductively. louis felt prickles of jealousy before he scolded himself. _let him do what he wants, scum. or maybe, tonight, he’ll leave you after realizing that there’s so much more to the world that someone like_ him.

“aw, harry’s been snatched away by ladies again. how come it never happens to me?” niall pouted beside louis, downing a shot of tequila. “need to find myself a woman soon.”

the curly-haired boy’s eyes flitted nervously toward the two, then to liam and zayn as they caught up, presumably, in the corner. his large hands were fiddling around with the intricate rings that gilded them, and louis noticed a slight tremor in his movement. he was suppressing coughs, holding them tightly in his chest like something was wrong, louis knew, but didn’t know _what_ it was.

every instinct within him was screaming, pulling him toward the boy, urging him to take his hands and steady them and kiss them until everything else went away. was he growing overwhelmed by his environment? had louis done something wrong? or worse, did he suddenly regret everything that had involved himself with louis?

he nudged niall sharply and gestured toward the boy when he noticed harry’s lips slowly turn this shade of dark blue that nearly matched the color of the lights surrounding them. at first, he thought it was his eyes playing tricks on him, before the color grew more and more obvious.

“fuck,” niall whispered, hurrying over to harry, nearly shoving the girl aside. louis followed suit, standing helplessly beside them. “haz, do you have your inhaler? where is it?” harry pointed toward his bag, which was sitting next to him on a stool, rasping something incoherent and soft.

louis and niall were right on it, practically throwing themselves into the black messenger bag, digging around for anything that looked even remotely like it could help the boy breathe. “found it,” niall exclaimed, which relieved louis, but at the same time frustrated him. selfishly, he wanted to be the one to save the boy. he couldn’t be more tactless, he thought. risking his boyfriend’s wellbeing with such foolish desires, ones that he hoped would never surface again.

harry took three puffs before the color returned to his face, though his hands were still quavering. “sorry, guys,” he looked toward the girl he was talking to, who was standing incredulously, in the same spot where niall had elbowed her haphazardly. “and sorry, i- i didn’t catch your name.”

the girl, louis realized, was even more beautiful up close, leaving this sour aftertaste in his chest, which he found also being a large source of his self-hatred. he loved harry, but he hated the person he was that allowed himself to love, he realized. “you’re fine, darling,” the girl said, with this melodious voice that made her even more angelic, if that was even possible. “it’s deanne. i just wanted to say hi because i was actually at your concert earlier. you smashed it! but i’ll give you some space to relax for a bit. you look like you need it.”

before harry could interject, niall insert himself between them again. “thank you, and we’re so sorry.”

“no worries,” she chimed was she turned tail with her vibrant drink and left.

it fell silent between the three until harry cleared his throat. “thanks for helping me. i was trying to figure out a way to wiggle myself out of that situation, but it was pretty hard,” he laughed.

the irish boy fell stern, sobering up (in every way). “be careful, haz. you have to pay attention when this sort of thing happens.”

“i know, i know,” his green eyes met louis’ blue ones, who was still unable to say anything. “it doesn’t happen often. it’s been, like, six months since something like this last happened. i thought i grew out of it, is all.”

harry was quick to scurry out from their circle before niall could begin lecturing him even more, joining liam and zayn in their little debacle. 

“niall,” louis said carefully, after they were out of earshot. “you probably know more about harry’s, um- his situation than i do.”

“what do you mean?” the irish boy said, concern covering up his original breeziness. “has he talked to you at all about his like, asthma and anxiety?”

“kind of. but not really. i’ll get him to, though. feel like i should know more. god, i’m a shitty boyfriend.”

“hey, no. you’re fine. it’s not your fault. he’s just struggled with, like, panic attacks in the past. it kind of has bad interactions with his asthma. has he had asthma attacks or panic attacks in front of you in the past?”

louis remembered the night in the bathroom spent trying to get harry to _breathe,_ feeling so unworthy of the boy’s care, when all he brought in his wake was destruction. “yeah. once. and there have been times where he has coughing fits, or whatever. if there’s a strong odor, or as a reaction to smoke, or whatever.”

“he should stop smoking, that absolute buffoon,” niall shook his head disapprovingly. “i mean, it’s improved throughout the years. i’ve known the lad since secondary school. used to be awful, really.”

“i’m glad that it’s improved. i’ve been trying to smoke less. around him, at least.”

“it’s not great for you, either, tommo. cut the habit completely, if you’re going to bother. believe it or not, h isn’t the only person i’ve grown to care about. you need to take care of yourself, louis. you’re delusional if you think i haven’t noticed.”

he pursed his lips, feeling his stubble press against each other so deeply that he hoped they would act as a sort of velcro, prohibiting him from saying anything _stupid._ “thanks, mate,” he chuckled stiffly. “i’m working on it.”

and it didn’t feel like a lie when he said it; after all, he _had_ been trying. this is what trying is, right? if nothing else, he was trying. right?

niall and louis finally went silent when the rest of the boys hobbled over, evidently less than sober but not exactly piss drunk. “how’re you, lou?” a milky voice said, draping his arm over his shoulder. it made louis stiffen again. zayn.

“i’m alright. you’ve been getting along with liam?”

“i guess so. he’s a very interesting person. kind of like an oriole. i admire him. i’ve missed him. we haven’t been in touch in a while.”

“an oriole?”

“yeah. a type of bird,” zayn chuckled.

“a little disrespectful, isn’t it, comparing someone to something as small and helpless as bird the size of your palm.”

“no. orioles are strong and free and beautiful and proud. the ones that you see perched high on the trees, bright in color, singing shamelessly. fearlessly.”

“you should hear how foolish you sound right now.”

“i just admire him, is all. you’re no different, constantly reciting quotes from literature that no one’s ever heard of.”

“don’t compare the art of words to your lunacy,” louis laughed, trying to feign exasperation, despite his happiness to bicker with zayn again seeping through his cracks.

“lunacy, huh?”

“yeah. derived from _lune,_ or _luna._ people used to think mental instability had to do with the phases of the moon. i don’t blame them. waking up in the middle of the night, it’s hard to believe that the rabbit on the moon isn’t actually wiggling its ears at you, telling you things.”

“things? things like what?”

“you know. that you’re completely alone. or that you’re not, depends on the day.”

zayn softened. “well, i hope that there are more and more days that come where the rabbit tells you that you are not alone. because it’s on those days that it is right.”

“thanks.”

“for?”

“everything. high school. new york. now.”

“you’d do the same for me, no?”

louis dug his hands deep in his pockets like he expected them to be endless pits of lonely nothing, but they weren’t endless—he could feel the seams between his fingers right away and he remember the cracked hard-boiled egg appearance of the sky from just hours ago. “yeah.”

“so there’s no need to thank me.”

louis didn’t hear harry come from behind him; footsteps covered up by headache-inducing bass-boosted music and the flirtatious timbres of a variety of voices, but he didn’t jump when he felt the boy’s hand rest on the small of his back. somehow, he knew it was harry—maybe from the smell, or the way it fit around him like they were custom-made for each other, but he _knew._ it sounded stupid and idealistic and unreal, like something that he would have thought _never_ happened in real life. trauma didn’t just disappear like that. and of course, it didn’t (as proven by the hours and hours of future breakdown sessions he’d spend locking himself in a cupboard he discovered while looking for more empty notebooks), but for a second, he felt safe.


	52. eroica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> symphony no. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// eating disorder , mentions of weight , implied past self harm , past sexual abuse
> 
> sorry if the end of this chapter seemed rushed. it is. i'm tired, didn't want to wait too horribly long before uploading. thanks for the patience, i'm trying to make these last chapters better (that's my excuse for not uploading), but i think in reality i'm just being lazy. i'll try harder. let me know what you think. sorry. 
> 
> again, thanks everyone for reading. dms are open, comments give me life. twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

when things got busier, they had to adhere less and less to the meal plan louis was given. harry couldn’t stay around for every meal. louis knew that, of course, but something about eating alone screamed _lonely._

when he ate at times he could very well lie about eating, he’d wonder if he had been making everything up all this time; conjuring problems out of nothing to reap the attention he felt like he never got as a child. _selfish._

he confronted harry about what had happened at the bar after his second gig in the middle of the night a week later. he was awoken by another one of his dreams, which came as a merciless reminder that no matter how long each stretch of time was, which the shadows would leave him alone, they would always come back. he spent what could have been hours or mere minutes staring at the ceiling, the corners of his eyes flowering with fear.

he wanted these feelings to disappear, but at the same time, he’d grown so attached to them, they became a part of him. like if he allowed himself to forget them or to feel even a second of happiness, then his past suffering would be rendered invalid.

it didn’t make any sense to him, but in that same senseless way, it did.

he woke harry instinctively with nothing to say when the boy asked him what it was that was on his mind. he couldn’t properly articulate the conflicting faculties inside of him; he couldn’t explain why it was that he didn’t, that he _couldn’t_ even muster the desire for happiness like any normal living being.

so he asked.

it was at the wrong timing and for all the wrong reasons, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t have to intention to ask eventually. he told himself to do it much earlier, but his thoughts would never line up with his lips, and before he could even react, a week had passed.

“h?”

harry groaned, still three-fourths asleep.

“hazza.” louis tried again, voice shaking. _if he doesn’t answer this time, it’s a sign. i’ll stop. i’ll stop._ “harry?”

green eyes flicked open, meeting his own. “what’s up?”

“s-sorry.”

“don’t apologize, baby,” harry’s eyebrows knit together with concern and a tinge of fear. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing, i- i just couldn’t sleep. miss talking to you.”

“i’m always here. glad you woke me up,” harry’s voice, once thick with sleep, was much more alert now, fearful, almost, with only hints of tiredness. louis wondered how he did it. “was there something in particular? do you…”

the sentence didn’t have to be finished for them to both catch onto the implication. “no. well, yes. but no, that’s not the point.”

“if the feelings are there, then that’s the point that needs to be addressed,” harry frowned.

“just want to get my mind off it. sorry. i know you’re tired.”

“never too tired for you.”

“i wanted to ask about… you know. the time in the bathroom. and about what happened at the bar last week. meant to bring it up earlier. worried.” he spoke in fragments; a habit that others found unfitting for someone whose life revolved so heavily around literature and prose. “sorry.”

“stop apologizing, love. but i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

the curtains were left open like usual—harry always insisted on it, because he like to wake up to the morning sun, and the view of their condo wasn’t actually half bad, despite louis’ constant complaints. moonlight bled blue onto their white sheets, which had miniscule dots of red from when louis would bleed through his pants or his sleeves, that harry either hadn’t noticed or pretended not to notice. “you know. when we just pretended your panic attack on my bathroom floor straight up hadn’t happened. when your lips turned this sickly blue from not being able to breathe. you’re always taking care of me, and never letting me take care of you.”

“you’re insane- actually, okay. i acknowledge that all of what you said, really happened, and we didn’t talk about it. but it’s not because of some self-destructive motive like you.” louis flinched at the words that weren’t quite sharp, but hit hard and set deep. “sorry. i just meant, it never really came up. i’m not taking these great lengths to hide anything,” he sighed. “and i thought you just knew.”

“i’m dumb, so i suck at assuming things unless you tell me directly.”

“i just get anxiety sometimes. like, shakiness, difficulty breathing. stuff like that. and when it gets too overwhelming, it can manifest as a panic attack. just, just seeing you like that, seeing someone i love _so much_ suffering, it kind of overwhelmed me. and before you apologize, it wasn’t your fault. don’t, not even for a second, _ever_ think that it’s your fault.” harry swallowed. “some days, it gets difficult, but still manageable. i’ve gotten better at that through the years. so, so much better. and when it’s hard, i do rely on you. i tell you what i’m worried about, i ask for more cuddles. i’ve, i’ve um, tried to push people away before, but i realized, in time, that isolating myself would get me nowhere.”

“i’m glad,” louis said softly. “you deserve comfort. always.” harry smiled tightly and held louis’ hand to his chest, hoping to convey the how _safe_ he felt. their sheets and covers were a sanctuary that held thoughts that would never brave to leave just the two of them. it was something beautiful, louis thought, but terrifying in the same way. how harry held his entire world in his palms.

"you too," harry said, to which louis had to physically stop himself from shaking his head. he wasn't going to make this about himself; not now.

"what about the asthma?"

"what about it?"

"you gave me a scare the other day. "

"i thought i'd be okay without my inhaler. haven't had an attack since before i met you. thought, maybe it'd blow over."

"you've got to take care of yourself, haz."

harry thought about snorting and saying, _i don't want to hear that coming from you,_ but he decided against it, instead closing his eyes and pulling the ocean boy close. "i know."

the silence was overwhelming; suffocating, in every sense of the word. like cotton, it filled louis’ stomach and chest and lungs and throat and mouth, like he was the subject of a taxidermist.

"i have something to tell you." louis whispered, finally, after a long silence. his voice was something like the consistency of taffy; sweet and sticky and could be pulled apart into translucent threads of colorful sugar.

"what's up?"

"i think, i think i'm ready."

harry felt his stomach drop and explode into a swarm of hummingbirds with the annoyingly fast down strokes of the fragile little wings. “ready?”

"to... to give you what i should have given you long ago. although, i mean, if you don't want it, now that you know everything. i hadn't thought of that before."

"that's not it, and has never been it. will never be it. you know that. but are you sure? i would love to, but i don't want to do anything if you're just telling me this because you feel like you have to."

"i don't mean right now. you're dead tired. but maybe tomorrow. just, yeah. i think i'm ready." louis closed his eyes, hoping that he was adequately masking how hard his hands were shaking and how much uncertainty was flickering in his heart, blooming larger and with more magnitude by the second. maybe if he just tried it again, he thought, new memories would replace the old. like what happened in new york. maybe it would turn out as a net positive. maybe, after everything that'd happened, he could finally live like a normal person.

it wasn't that harry didn't notice the fear in the ocean boy's voice, but that he didn't _want_ to. he cared, god, he cared more than anything. but maybe this was okay, he thought, maybe it wouldn’t turn out too bad, before feeling guilty about the rampant utterings of his mind. "we'll see. depends on how you're feeling tomorrow. we should sleep now, though. you've got an appointment with dr. reid in less than twelve hours."

it started raining like mother nature knew of what was going on inside of louis’ heart and felt it necessary to embody it physically for the world to see. the droplets were thick and reminded him of paint, drenching the world in its heavy antics, coloring everything in the same somber color that stuck around for days, months, years.

“we are like rain,” matthew would tell him, voice soaked with this venomous temptation.

“how, uncle matt?” his childish voice would respond, soft and innocent and unassuming.

matthew never responded. he would just reach his arms back around louis’ small body, cold hands, adorned in rings in the shape of crosses. the question was always lost amidst moans (of fearful discomfort, not pleasure), only for them to be absorbed by his mother’s old clothes, including the dusty dress she’d worn just eight years earlier, at her and troy’s wedding.

louis sometimes wondered about troy. he didn’t question it much as a child; he was happy enough with his mother, and didn’t even consider himself ‘fatherless.’ sure, that’s what he _was,_ technically. but the word always implied that a father was a necessary part of being, when that simply wasn’t the case. that was how louis liked to see things, anyway. the idea of having another middle-aged man present during his childhood nauseated him.

maybe the dress was still there, or maybe jay had disposed of it after the years marked by matthew; he wouldn’t know. he hadn’t entered that closet since the last time matthew brought him in there when he was ten years old. he began insisting to his mother than the man not come anymore, and since he was old enough to take care of himself, it was no longer necessary.

once, however, he wandered in there after a particularly hard night. he was sixteen, and it’d been six years since he was last touched. he shied away from other kids at school, from his teachers, from his sisters, even his mother. even the lightest touches felt so unnatural, bringing him back to places he didn’t want to remember. earlier that day, he had gym class, which was always twice a week. he always changed in a stall, avoiding the prying eyes of others, but this particular day, the stalls were occupied by janitors working to unclog the system of debris that some idiotic high school student shoved in as a dare. he would have waited, or even better, skipped, but the teacher came into the boy bathroom to scold everyone for taking so long, losing his head especially after seeing louis still fully dressed in his button-up and slacks.

“you better change right fucking now, tomlinson,” the man scowled, leathery skin on his forehead folding into something terrifying; the boy would have believed it to be alive if he didn’t know better. “or it won’t be pretty.”

the other kids snickered at this. _don’tcrydon’tcrydon’tcry,_ louis urged himself, managing to squeak out a measly “okay” as he felt eyes boring holes into his skin, through the scar tissue littered about his limbs and the layer of fat coating his bones.

the teacher didn’t leave; only continued staring and staring and staring, becoming more scrutinizing by the second. he remembered thinking, at the time, _maybe this is all a dream, maybe he’d wake up in a few minutes doused in sweat, like he was meat left to marinate to strengthen its flavor._

he held his tears in effectively enough, at the very least, until he was able to retreat to the hallway after class. there were so many people brushing against each other and crushing the small. it wasn’t a conscious release of tears, rather, a forceful one; like the fluid flowing from his eyes wasn’t fluid at all, but sticky strings of mucus that clung to the back of his eyelids, gluing them shut.

when he got home, it was dead silent, but not in the cold, dreary way that usually weighed down on him until his chest collapsed. it was serene, like he’d just waltzed into a fruitful woods, foggy but warm and kind to the eyes. he felt his legs take him, almost mechanically, to the one place that felt so constant to him, even after all this time. unchanging. the dress was still there, lifelike, caked in a layer of dark gray. he wondered if he swiped a finger across it, the white would prevail, as if no time at all had passed since troy left.

something fell, heavy and loud with a noisy _clang!_ even against the pilled carpet. it was an ironing board that once leaned against the wall, blending in with the color of the wallpaper and the forest of fabric surrounding him. it was okay, he thought, everything was going to be okay.

at least, until he felt his knees give out and his bottom collide with the floor with the same force that the ironing board did. except this time, he heard nothing. not the whirr of the air conditioner, not his steady (or unsteady?) breathing, not his attempts to swallow the fear welling up in his throat, threatening to suffocate him. he clawed at his ears, hoping to pry out anything blocking his screaming that surely resonated against the walls from penetrating his eardrums.

but he wasn't screaming; he never screamed. not when matthew was around, not after matthew. in this closet, nothing escaped. not his story, not his voice, not his sanity. all he could do was kneel and wait for it all to be over.

when he woke, he expected to find himself in the closet again, but he instead was faced with soft eyelashes in front of moth-bitten curtains that only half-covered the morning sun. harry must have closed them just slightly when he realized louis was having trouble sleeping as the moonlight shone on his face the night before.

for a second, he thought about reaching out and touching the boy beside him, just to ensure that this was, in fact, reality, and not just an illusion as a result of his derangement, catalyzed by the dusty wedding dress.

but he couldn't; he couldn't wake up harry, not when the skin under the boy's eyes seemed so dark, bruised-looking. not when, despite his tiredness, he looked so beautiful. so louis simply, with as much care as he could gather, slid out of bed to make a cup of coffee; no cream or sugar, as always. he made one for harry, too, who would surely be awake soon.

his hunch was right, when just five minutes later he heard shuffling from their room. before harry even got ready for the day and fully woke up, he wandered over to the living area, where it smelled of coffee beans and of sunlight. "louuu," he whined, rubbing his eyes and falling into the ocean boy's arms.

"you smell."

"oh, shut up. you love it."

"in your dreams, bastard," louis laughed, but both boys knew the truth—it was blatant with how closely he was nuzzling himself into harry's chest; this is what he loved, this is what he lived for.

"you have a nutritionist appointment today," harry whispered, not even waiting for the lighthearted mood to subside before moving on.

"are you coming?"

"of course i am," the younger boy looked almost insulted at just the question, like it was something atrocious and bitter-tasting. "do you not want me to? that's alright, too, but i just want to know what's best for you so i can… so i can match that." _accommodate,_ he was about to say, but decided against it. too clunky and _obligatory,_ which was not the case at all.

"that's not it. you know that. i was just wondering. since you don't come for tom."

"that's different. this is physical and needs to be made note of, to keep you healthy. _alive._ that's why i want to come."

louis nodded, pursing his lips yet again. this was okay, it was okay. it was not that he minded harry's accompaniment. he worried about wasting harry's time or stepping on the scale and being exposed for what he really was.

when they arrived at the place, with its familiar permeating stench, he prayed, before stepping on backwards, like he was instructed to, that looks of disbelief would flow onto dr. reid and harry’s faces; etching permanent disappointment at his incompliance to recover, but nothing of the sort happened. the opposite, actually—it was relief that dominated. as soon as harry’s eyes softened and dr. reid gave him an approving nod, it was not consolation that he experienced, but thick, thick shame. the type that suctioned you down with a sickening _plop,_ and god, louis thought he was going to throw up right then and there.

it was not that he was so delusional to think that he _hadn’t_ been gaining weight all this time, unable to starve or purge, but there was still this perpetual hope lingering inside him, whispering that _maybe,_ just _maybe,_ by some inexplicable miracle, he was losing weight.

but that was not so.

the remainder of the appointment was a blur. the cadence of dr. reid’s shrill inflection that had pierced through louis’ eardrums in the past now sounded deep underwater, drowned out by everything else. the overwhelming smell of vanilla air freshener. the layer of fat coating his bones. the sound of his stomach digesting what they’d eaten that morning. his thoughts.

her words, already encased by her accent, were difficult to understand as is. paired with anxiety, it was near-impossible to comprehend. what he had caught, though, was—

“weight restoration.”

“decreased meal plan.”

“maintenance.”

_“recovery.”_

the word couldn’t feel any more alien to his ears. _him? recovered? was he really? was it that easy to go from sick to un-sick?_

 _if so, why didn’t he_ feel _any different, other than the disgusting fat that’d accumulated on his body?_

he never noticed the view, or lack thereof, more accurately, of dr. reid’s office. the skies were bright blue and cloudless—beautiful, too beautiful, juxtaposing the turbulence of louis’ mind. he hoped to see a vast cityscape through the window, considering they were on the sixth floor. instead, he was faced with cold, one-way glass of another office building. maybe seeing the inside would have intrigued him, allowed him to dissociate and become someone else for just a split second, but there was nothing. just black glass.

and he hoped, by heaven or hell, that next life, he would be granted wings like that of a bird (if next life were really something to exist).


	53. if i cleaned everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> would you forgive me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of weight , eating disorder , mentions of self harm , suicidal thoughts
> 
> hi i can feel myself slipping but idc. hope everyone is well, hope this chapter is adequate. recently i've been growing less and less satisfied with my writing and i'm trying to do something about it (i've been studying a lot! grammar, syntax, diction, etc. i have a lot of writing textbooks from when my father was first studying to become a professor and learn english simultaneously), and i hope this fic shows growth. 
> 
> i don't know what i want to do with my life, i've always wanted to pursue oboe but now that dream seems so much more faraway. i'm exploring other options at the moment and i am unsure (and i never thought i'd make it this far to the point where i would have to start thinking about the future). hope that clears things up. 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

harry knew not to let slip his happiness after he caught a glimpse at the ocean boy's face at the news of his weight.

louis was no longer underweight, now tiptoeing on the border between underweight and normal—a result of several months of treatment and what seemed like endless amounts of blood and tears and sticky strings of saliva dripping into an unyielding toilet bowl. he found louis in that position far more times than he'd like to admit, always proceeded by broken sobs through thin wooden doors and poorly-covered retching. that was the sole detriment of their new place, they both came to realize; how thin the walls were. they learned this after the first or second night, able to hear their neighbor's cat mewling to no end, so much and so clearly that they had thought it was stuck inside the wall rather than on the other side of it.

personally, harry had been over the moon with excitement, learning that his boyfriend's heart was now functioning without the risk of shutting down, his bones without the risk of shattering at the lightest touch, his lungs expanding without the risk of collapsing if strained just past the threshold of normal.

but louis hadn't been. it was when they were sitting in the suffocating office, harry realized that the boy sitting beside him was not sitting beside him at all, rather floating about in a different dimension too far and too abstract for someone like himself to fathom. for anyone, really. anyone that was not louis william tomlinson. seeing his vacant eyes made harry's smile roll smoothly off his face like a coin, reminding him that this was not so much a step forward, but an opportunity for a step forward. whether the ocean boy decides on taking that step or not, he knew, was completely out of his control. and being reminded of that was demoralizing to say the least—knowing that, to louis, physical health meant naught.

it was not that harry hadn't _tried_ to make things better, or to comfort louis, but he didn't know _how._ everything seemed to backfire so quickly in his mind that ideas were immediately scrapped and never heard of again. all they could do was sit in silence and bask in the dusty sunlight that beat down on them. it was getting hotter and seasons were passing like fleeting thoughts, so quickly, it was incomprehensible.

things were picking up for him, as well. school and work were becoming more and more impossible as his music career began gaining traction. so much so, that he was really forced to begin to at least consider whether continuing school and part-time work was really worth it or not. he hadn't expected to blow up so quickly and so widely, being well-known in london would have been more than he could have asked for. but there were people who listened to him across the country now, and the thought alone made him dizzy.

of course, school wasn't something he would ever drop so carelessly. even if, realistically, it wouldn’t change much about his career, having the privilege of learning about the nooks and crannies of something he loved while also being held accountable was something far too valuable for him to simply discard. the only classes that would be of use to him if he continued on his current path were composition, and to an extent, theory. but it was the most seemingly irrelevant classes that he held the closest to his heart, like conducting, or music history, or intro to music education.

ironically, it was stravinsky’s petrouchka that played in its mad frenzy on their way home. such performances were the ones that made him remember his roots, and what it really meant to _perform._ this particular recording was performed by daniil trofinov, a man that he admired to no end when it came to music. obviously, they were of different worlds and different focuses, but harry believed that, to its core, music is made of the same essence.

when they returned home, the sun was hanging high in the sky like it was still noon. time was passing so rapidly, and while so much was happening around them, it felt like it was just yesterday that harry found the ocean boy hyperventilating on the sticky bathroom floor of the bar. it was summer now, at its peak; the cicadas cried like the world was about to end, and maybe it was—harry wouldn’t doubt it.

their house, whose quiet was once a breathable tranquil, now was filled with stifling lethargy. harry thought about what louis proposed last night, and how impossible it was. the ocean boy, tired-eyed and statue-like, showed no signs of bringing the notion of _sex_ back up. harry breathed, not knowing whether it was a sigh of relief or of disappointment.

what would he do, anyway, if they _did_ have sex? would he take hold, full-throttle, and delve in like the boy beneath him was vitreous, like his skin was something less fibrous, more brittle, like glass?

or would louis move beneath him so naturally and with such experience, his heart would shatter from the pain of knowing that it was a result of years of abuse?

the evening passed somberly, with the older boy understandably unresponsive to harry’s attempts at easing the mood into something less severe, though to no avail. they ate, but louis with this immeasurable look of disgust plastered on his face as he cut his food into such small pieces that the enchiladas were no longer recognizable; colorless, textureless, tasteless. but the boy scooped it all into his mouth anyway, despite the tears that were now steadily flowing down his cheeks, diluting the contents of his plate with salty fluid.

helplessness flooded harry's throat like tears did louis' plate as he just watched the boy force the food into his mouth while it, dripped down his chin along with clear, sticky snot. he was doing all he could, holding louis' hands, repeating _"you are so strong"_ like a mantra, but before him still sat the person he loved, so full of self-loathing and contempt.

maybe, harry thought, it was wanderlust that led so many men chasing the sky in search for what was beyond something as fragile and insignificant as life. maybe that was it, maybe it was _wanderlust_ that haunted louis, and not (the word feels wrong in his mouth, much too large and much too sharp) _suicidal._

it was hard to fathom how much time had really passed between the beginning of the meal and when louis finished, but by the time everything was over, the sun was long gone past the mountains, and harry realized that he didn't notice the sky transition to warm, dark pinks and navies, to pitch black. there were stars, peppering the boys' hair with fragments of white light, like it was december all over again and it was snow that was dusting the sky. it was, surprisingly, louis who broke the vitreous silence between them with a voice that could have been easily mistaken for as a cough.

“i don’t like how prominent they are here.”

“what?”

“the stars,” he clarified. “i used to like them, but starless nights now hold a whole new meaning to me. i kind of miss that night.”

“why?” harry mused, “we’re here now. together.”

“nostalgia, i guess.”

“you say it’s nostalgia but that was not even a year ago.”

“it feels like it’s been a lifetime.”

and he was right, it _did_ feel like lifetimes ago. how far their relationship had progressed, how difficult things were, how much (or, conversely, how little) progress toward unveiling louis’ deepest, most locked away secrets had been made.

the stars in the ocean boy’s hair looked so divinely tangible, he had to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing them. “are you… okay? do you want to talk about it?” harry said, awkwardly.

“no. no, that won’t be necessary.”

“will you ever?”

“i don’t know.”

harry swallowed, slightly discouraged. “well, i’m always here. whenever you’re ready.”

louis was a statue in the light; still and stony and _cold._ “let’s go to the bed, yeah?”

they walked, hand-in-hand, but there was this vacancy that harry couldn’t quite place. their movements were fluid, but in an oddly mechanical way. down the hall and up the stairs, eventually their bodies sank into mattress like unstoppable weights. the ocean boy let it all happen; he let his body be held down by harry’s arms until the younger boy realized what he was doing. he’d forgotten, momentarily, about the gravity of the situation until he was about to bend down to kiss louis.

“shit, fuck. i’m sorry.” he jumped back, startled by his own actions. “sorry. i shouldn’t have done that.”

“no,” louis replied, shaking his head, voice completely devoid of emotion. he wasn’t shaking, not this time, not like before. it was eerie, in its own sense, how indifferent he was. “it’s okay. do what you want with me.”

“what do _you_ want?”

“does that matter?”

“tell me. are you actually comfortable with this?” fuck, harry thought, clenching his teeth, for just one second, could his libido control itself?

“you want it, don’t you?” the boy said pointedly, but still deadpan, gesturing to harry’s semi-hard manhood, which he’d tried so hard to conceal. “why not just do it? you’ve been holding it in for almost a year now. take what should have been yours ages ago.”

“ _fuck,_ lou. your body is not mine,” harry whispered, taken aback. “you don’t owe me anything. i don’t want to do this if we’re just going to regret it.”

“you won’t have to regret or feel guilty about anything. fuck me, harry. fuck me like i’m nothing but an object.”

his words made harry remember the night louis told him everything about his past, how he had begged harry to _hurt_ him. the only difference was that this time, harry was actually _close_ to doing so. it was disgusting, he knew, but rather than calming down at louis’ cruel words, his lust only grew. being aware of how sick the idea was, to actually follow through with what louis asked of him, only made the urge feel so much worse.

“i can’t do that. you… you don’t know what you’re saying. i couldn’t do that to you. not now.” he strained, still feeling heat pulsate throughout his crotch. the longing was agonizing, and maybe louis _was_ right, maybe this is what he needed. it’s biological, after all.

“i’m asking you to.” louis lauhed dryly. “i wonder if semen has calories.”

louis’ hands snaked their way down to the waist of harry’s joggers, sliding them down along with his boxers, revealing his painfully hard cock. he stroked it like it was something to be worshipped, like he was an ancient roman and harry’s manhood was the sun.

harry could only writhe at this, trying to suppress the voices screaming at him to _devour_ the ocean boy, but he could not bring himself to tell him to stop. he allowed louis to continue rubbing him and sliding his tongue (which was so soft harry wondered if it was truly a tongue, and not the powdery wings of a butterfly) over him.

_“matthew.”_

maybe it was the man’s name that snapped him back into reality, or maybe it was something else that screamed at him that this was so, in every way, _wrong._ harry pulled away, almost forcefully, ripping his still-hard manhood away from louis’ hands, causing fingernails to scrape against the delicate skin.

"stop. this time, i'm asking you to stop for me, not you. stop, lou. please. stop."

the ocean boy was still in a trance, it seemed, because he just went on, chucking softly, almost maniacally; terrifyingly so. "don't you want it? don't you want me? you're rock hard. that's proof enough?"

harry took a sharp inhale. "what do you want? do you want to do to me what jean did to you?"

louis flinched at this, wounded, like he had just received a blow to his face. "i—“

"sorry. that was low of me. i didn't mean it."

"no. no, that's... it was my fault," louis breathed, glossiness exiting his eyes, leaving something much more dull. the same look he would have whenever harry would catch him balled up on tile floor, hands sticky with blood. "i'm sorry. i don't know what came over me."

harry searched, deep and far into uncharted waters in search of the usual blue eyes that always took hold of everything, even when there was nothing to take hold of, and shook to the point of disassemblement. "it- it's _not_ okay, but i forgive you. at i understand." he reached out to hold the boy's hand, only for louis to jump back with clearly more force than he'd intended.

“sorry. just, i'll just leave. i'm so sorry, harry. i'm sorry. fuck. i—“

"leave? to go where? it's almost midnight."

"you know i can't sleep even on normal days. much less after everything."

"stay in bed with me, then," harry pleaded. "just stay here."

"i don't understand why you would want me around after—“

"i care about you, what's there not to understand?" the younger boy boomed. his voice was raising and he couldn't stop it, but there was something satisfying about feeling the air around him vibrate as a result of his own power. "you're crazy if you think i'm going to let you leave, knowing full well that you're going to tear yourself apart with a razor blade as soon as you're alone."

"harry, i _hurt_ you," louis strained, trying to maintain the same lifelessness as before, wishing away the tears that he knew were going to spill over in just minutes. god, he had to get out. "just take care of yourself, for _once._ you deserve it."

there was now something growing, something alive in harry's throat, just expanding and expanding and expanding, like there was a boa wrapped around him, crushing his lungs. "i fucking do. i don't understand where you get the notion that i'm like you in the way i allow myself to suffer. i don't. if i come across a problem, i tell you. if i want your attention, i tell you. if i'm worried about something, i tell you. i _trust_ you, lou. i love you. i could wax poetic about you all fucking day. i'm not hurt, i wasn't hurt, i was just horny as fuck but that doesn't mean that i want to have meaningless sex. especially," harry paused, trying to regather himself. "especially if it means fucking you through a flashback. which is what was pretty much unfolding until we stopped."

"but, harry. you've taken such good care of me. i want to _give_ this to you. i want to give _myself_ to you. and maybe this is what i need! maybe this kind of overwriting is what would erase my trauma."

"never. maybe you're right, i don't know. but that's not something i want. forgive me for being selfish, but i don't want to do it that way."

"never. you're never selfish."

the cicadas were still crying. clouds had drifted over the moon, so the ambient glow that spilled into the room before was now gone. "we're supposed to be selfish to each other every once in a while. your selfishness is my pleasure. that's what a relationship is," harry added, "though you probably know nothing about that, when all you know is abuse.”

"it—“

"it was. in more ways than one."

"that's not even what i was going to say," louis pouted.

"then what was it?" silence. "that's what i thought."

"seriously, harry. i'm sorry. i-" his face softened, like the force of gravity acting upon his flesh and bone had increased sevenfold. if he had the features of a child while sucking harry off, he now looked several decades older. "i hate myself. i want to bleed. i want to hurt. i want you to hurt me."

"let it out, love."

"i'm so fucked up, i don't know why you deal with me, everyone would just be so much better off _without_ me, but i can't leave you even though staying is selfish. i love you and i'm so _addicted_ to you and i want to bathe in your scent and in your voice and in your eyes. but at the same time, i want to fucking _die._ i want this all to be over, harry. i _deserve_ all the pain. i hate my body and i hate my voice and i hate my mind. i want to be thin, i want to be in control, i want to hurt. i want to prove to myself that my pain is real. i-" his voice broke off. _"i don't ever want to let go of these feelings._ that’s why i can’t do this… this recovery thing everyone is talking about. i’m fat again, isn’t that, alone, enough? _"_

harry closed his eyes, and prayed to every god out there, every god he didn't believe in, the dead, the alive, the angels, the stars, the sun, the moon, the devil, the sky, the soil, the trees; everything he could think of. he didn’t know what exactly it was he was wishing for, but he knew that he wanted nothing more than the look of pure agony to drip off louis’ face like his tears did. but there were no tears, not this time. “i hear you, lou. your pain is very real. don’t let anything tell you otherwise. what’s been done to you are such atrocities, i can’t even put into words. you’re allowed to suffer, but you’re allowed to feel better. you can move on, louis. you have permission to move on. you are allowed to be happy.”

“they’re gone, matthew’s dead, and i’m still here. i’m still here and i’m lost, and—“ the ocean boy wrapped his arms around himself, like he could hide in them and shrink even more than he already had. “i don’t know if i even want to be found.”

harry was speechless. he’d envisioned so many moments, dreamed and dreamed, that louis would one day open up to him and spill everything stored inside, packed so densely, and he would know exactly what to say to make things better. even louis, he knew, expected him to find the best words to soften the edges. but in this moment, the moment that he’d been hoping for from the very beginning, he had no idea how to respond.

so he just hugged the boy and cried, as louis fell into his arms weightlessly, breathlessly.

it felt like ages before he could actually gather the courage to speak again. louis was a ripple amidst a deep sea, and all harry wanted was to harness the shipwrecks beneath it, show him again that there is _something_ , even in the absence of everything else.

“we’ll find you, lou.” he said, “we’ll find you.”

he stood and closed the moth-bitten curtain, which allowed fragments of light through, sifting through the room like delicate powder.

“maybe,” louis said.

that “maybe” felt like the world to harry, and for a second, he thought he would deflate from relief. _maybe._


	54. borrowed blood is not a sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of past self harm , body image , mentions of suicidal thoughts
> 
> hi i hope this is okay. i'm writing a song and it's for the most part done, lmk if anyone would be interested in that sort of thing. i've been struggling a bit lately, feeling like i keep disappointing people. i'm honestly such a flake sometimes and keep blaming it on mental illness but i need to hold myself more accountable. 
> 
> lmk what you think of this. twitter: @louflymehome

they decided to go on an impromptu trip, while the weather was still nice.

paris is where they chose, where things were a little more grand than everywhere else, more romantic. parisian skies had a special air about them, much bluer than anywhere else he'd seen, almost so blue that the color dripped onto the tangible things in the world. it reminded harry of louis' eyes.

he envisioned paris as a place with flowers, waltzes, bakeries, unicycles, carousels, and horse-drawn carriages, but it was denser and busier than he thought it would be. not very different from england, save for the unfamiliar language. he was the type to pick up languages quickly, and french was not an exception. of course, he wasn't completely fluent, but he was competent enough in it to get around without issues. it looked and sounded beautiful, he thought. maybe he'd write a song in french someday.

though paris won favor in the end, the two were heavily considering rome or venice, because louis had wanted to see more historical structures. it'd inspire him, he said. but when harry added that they could visit versailles on the last couple of days they were there, it was decided, without a hitch. france, it was.

it was actually quite the struggle to get louis to agree to go on yet another trip; the second time in just six months. he was used to simply not travelling at all, seeing no point to spending such money on memories that would be so fleeting. if it were up to the older boy, he would just spend days off pent up at home, reading, or writing, or reliving. harry, on the other hand, was the type to travel whenever he could, which was not very often, truth be told. things would get in the way much more quickly than he'd be able to anticipate, causing his plans to fall apart in his arms.

it was louis' presence that resparked these sentiments, making harry's restlessness just that much more prevalent. he was chasing inspiration, in a sense, while also hoping to give the whole world to louis. if he couldn't pluck the sun out of the sky to match louis' brightness, then it would be the world that they'd cull.

and it indeed was a catalyst for expression, both boys discovered. louis found himself absorbing the scenery around him in the most romantic, most poetic ways so that he could write about it later. he took shitty pictures with his phone so that he'd have at least something semi-palpable to work with. harry, too, had lyrics plant themselves in his notebook out of seemingly nowhere. he brought one of his guitars along, just in case louis had a bad night, or there was just something he he had to transpire as a result of the parisian atmosphere, with its bells and whistles and fountains and everything.

something about seeing the ocean boy tread on the stone brick streets, studying fruits from the farmer’s market, and getting excited about hand-painted jewelry struck something special inside of harry. the boy, who was usually so unconfident and forced himself to shrink unnaturally in crowds, looked so free amidst everything. it was magical, like other pedestrians sensed his aura, parting like they were the tide and he was poseidon. or, at least, that’s how harry imagined it.

they bit into thin tubes of honey and slurped them dry, leaving their lips sticky with the substance, gold-tinted and fresh and sweet. the sun beat down on the city relentlessly, but not in a way that was stifling like it was on certain days in london. more like a gentle ache they could feel ebbing at their skin, so gradual and unnoticeable.

ever since that night, neither boys spoke of the issue of sex again. they woke and it all was gone, anchored in the night before and far too heavy to bring up again. harry tried, he really did, but the ocean boy would just brush it away, walls all the way up, made of reinforced steel and even another layer of bulletproof glass.

however, in hindsight, louis started talking more than he did before. he still avoided emotional dumping and unnecessary bitching, but letting it all out was cathartic, almost in the same way that bleeding had been. before, he’d imagine himself draining the impurities by opening his skin and siphoning them out, but it had grown less and less necessary with harry by his side, he realized. even writing became something of an outlet, a place where he could bleed without tearing open his skin like before. he began writing poems alongside his novel as just an experiment, but grew attached to the ab libitum of the words, concise yet complex.

he thought about helping harry write his songs at times, but always dismissed those ideas like they were nothing but tainted and intrusive. harry’s career was his own. he didn’t want to become so controlling of a partner that he’d assert himself as a part of every single element of harry’s life. there had to be some extent of detachment from both sides. he didn’t want to sabotage harry’s success with his ridiculous schemes, anyway.

but it continued digging at him as a persistent dream, despite him swearing to himself that he would never bring it up.

“you know,” louis said, playing with harry’s fingers on the balcony of their hotel. it was less in the heart of paris and more bordering on the edges, where just a few minutes of driving would take you past the parisian ways of speech and thinking. less soft around the edges and more crisp, like someone had upped the contrast of an image, but the image was unending and extended past the horizon. “you know, jean was french. vautour was his last name, or, uh, _is_ his last name, after all. he spoke some, at times, though i never knew what any of it meant. i’m curious, now. i wonder what kinds of words he whispered in my ear.”

“nothing that mattered,” harry said pensively. “not anymore, at least.”

 _“nostalgie de la boue.”_

“what?”

 _“’yearning for the mud.’_ attraction to the depraved, the ugly, the demented. it’s the only phrase i know in french other than _je m’appelle louis._ ”

the younger boy rolled his eyes fondly. “of course you only remember the poetic things. most people would learn how to ask where the bathroom is, first, no?”

“i guess so. but i like that kind of thing. i’m also not much of a history person, but things like the french revolution are quite fascinating. morbid, yes, but fascinating.”

“you’re an edgy fuck, you know that?”

there was a person passing beneath them on a bicycle, ringing its bell, as louis’ eyes gleamed and he responded. “you love me, though?”

“of course.”

that afternoon, they went to the sainte-chapelle. louis found himself taken by it, stained glass arching over them, with its purples and greens and reds. he’d seen it in pictures before, but the height of it in person, he realized, was really something else. the ceiling was higher than anything he’d ever seen, and candelabras adorning the walls. looking up mimicked looking through a kaleidoscope. matthew would have liked this, he thought.

like harry could sense the memories of the pocket bible seeping into louis’ mind, his grip grew stronger around the boy’s fingers. the walls pictured interpretations of the bible, stretching from the western bay of the north wall with genesis, all the way to the south wall.

it was odd, how prevalent religion was in his life, despite not being religious. he’d tried to worship before, at the request of matthew, but he could never bring himself to. what is god to him, when visions of the bible cascaded his nights?

“ah,” harry exclaimed. “i’ve been trying to remember this quote for the entire morning. finally got it.”

“oh yeah?”

“’man is free at the instant he wants to be.’ it’s a voltaire quote. you said you liked the revolution, yeah?”

“took you all morning?” louis laughed, scooting closer to harry as they walked beneath the fragmented light.

“not everyone’s vocabulary is entirely just quotes from dead white guys.”

“we’ll all be dead white guys at some point.”

they returned to the hotel that night with the taste of whipped cream and crepes clinging onto their teeth and tongues. oddly enough, louis did not feel the unpleasant weight from sugar pulling down on his insides and begging him to set it free. it was instead a peaceful fullness; a feeling that he used to take for granted. parisian summer nights smelled of expensive cheese and expensive wines. by late in the evening, the city was still bustling; street musicians clanging their pots and strumming their makeshift guitars, couples doing the tango along well-lit sidewalks next to bakeries. a bit too much for louis to handle after a long day, but romantic nonetheless.

louis tried to convince harry, as well, to perform for people on the streets. that he’d find success lingering in some corner, and maybe even assert his name in a french record label. harry, however, just laughed and brushed it off. he _did_ bring his guitar on the trip, as he did everywhere. having the bag slung over his shoulder, louis remembered, made him look extra attractive. maybe he’d learn someday and adopt the same calloused fingers of harry’s that he loved so much.

he couldn’t sleep that night, but it wasn’t nightmares that kept him awake, rather, it was wanderlust. maybe it was because the city fell from lively to tranquil past one in the morning; he had this urge to go out and get lost, in a country whose language he didn’t understand, roads he didn’t recognize, people who didn’t recognize him.

not the type of wandering that he usually experienced (the type that told him his dreams would be more pleasurable if he slept on train tracks), but instead function as a real need to explore. of course, he would run the risk of getting jumped, but he figured that it would be less dangerous than his usual flirting with thoughts that asked him if the world would really care if he were gone.

by that, he rolled out of bed, slithering out of harry’s arms, who had still been breathing deeply and sleeping soundly. it’d been a busy day, after all. it was comfortably cool for a night in july, slight breeze blowing hair from his face, exposing his soft forehead to thin light. he was eerily aware of each step, the way the rubber bottom of his shoes made contact with the ground, heel to toe, heel to toe.

he decided not to wear a jacket when he looked out the window and the streets were empty. his arms would be out for show—but this was a country where he knew no one and no one knew him. it was okay, he figured, to flaunt his vileness for one day.

even before he cut so heavily on his arms, he always wore modest clothing that covered him to his ankles and hands. he hated how flabby he was, how he could feel his thighs brushing against each other no matter how underweight he was, or how hard he tried to form a valley between them, how his upper arms were soft and clearly separable from bone. anything that wasn't bone, he decided, was inherently impure.

he never even showed his arms, or, more accurately, much of any part of his body to harry. there'd been accidental discoveries, but never intentional. harry didn't mind; he didn't so much as blink when louis left the room to change, but both boys could sense longing that stemmed from green eyes; not the predatory type, but the desire for louis to trust him enough to just take off a jacket in front of him.

walks at night in paris were radically different from his afternoon strolls in london. the streets were quiet yet the lights were alive, the people still around did not look busy, instead destinationless but not lost. he figured he was one of those people.

even the stars looked different, he thought, or maybe it was just his imagination. they were larger and further apart, like heavy raindrops. was paris closer to the sky, after all?

he strayed further than he meant to, mindlessly, when he realized that he had his notebook with him, but not his phone. his surroundings looked familiar yet foreign at the same time, like he'd seen it only in dreams. streetlamps shone a yellow-orange onto his face and his paper, dyeing the cold white into something warmer, more digestible, more alive.

he sat without looking for a bench, wincing as he felt his bones sink into jagged pavement. beside him was a drainage hole that led to a large sewage system. he always wondered what he'd find and what would become of him if he were to crawl in and never out again. _a pleasant place to pass,_ he thought.

he wrote. he wrote and he never felt so small in his life. this time, the smallness was unmatched—despite being in the middle of a street, people simply walked around him like he wasn't there. it was humiliating but at the same time, liberating.

there were women with thin thighs in tight leather jeans staggering along walls drunkenly, so louis wrote about them. there were teenage girls with colored hair holding hands with men much older than them, and louis wrote about them, too. there were stray black cats digging through dumpsters, presumably to find their next meal, and, about them, too, louis wrote.

there was a girl sitting on the edge of a fountain in the middle of the plaza, reading. it was hardcover, with no book jacket (which louis believed to tell a lot about a person, whether they keep the book jacket or not), dark, bound by white thread. the contrast between the colors made the book almost seem like a shirt mistakenly turned inside out. _dickinson’s best poems,_ the cover read, in gold text.

she leaned so far back that louis worried she would slip right into the cold water. she was thin, unnaturally so, _deathly_ so, so much that there was no way that her level of thinness was in any way _healthy._ each joint in her hands holding the book was visible, her collarbones, the hollowness of her cheeks. he could probably wrap a single hand around her upper arm, and still have room to spare. seeing her bony thighs not fill the already tiny legs of her pants made louis want to throw up. not because her appearance was disgusting, but because the idea of someone else suffering in the same way, or maybe even worse than he did, was sickening. it screamed that _he wasn’t sick enough,_ that _he was never sick enough,_ that _he was never thin enough to be sick._ he hated his body as it was now, with the erasure of all the work he’d put in to make it sharper and more acceptable to his own dizzy standards.

he wanted to go up to her and ask her if she was okay, but had a feeling that in doing so, he’d present himself as a terribly rude foreigner. not to mention, he didn’t even speak the language, and would just come off as a blubbering maniac.

so he remained hunched over with his knees to his chest, still relishing the uneven pavement as it bore into his skin. the sun was already up when he snapped back into reality, feeling judgmental glances of city-goers as they passed by, some kicking him in the back, whispering about him in french. he remembered his bare arms out in the open, and normally, he’d shrink in shame, but the sun was so bright and so hot and so oppressive that he didn’t care. he didn’t lose track of time by falling asleep on the street, but was rather so taken by his notebook that he failed to notice anything else surrounding him. people-watching, as he saw it, was something completely separate from actually being present in the moment. he wondered if he was ever really present, under that logic.

he was met by a worried harry when he returned to the hotel. light was spilling in from open curtains against sloppily-painted white furniture and beige walls. harry, whose eyes were filled with sparks of anger to mask his fear, stood immediately from the cracked-leather sofa.

“where the fuck were you?” he growled.

“i…” louis breathed, scrambling to cover his arms with anything he could find. some of his cuts were far too new and far too red to slip harry’s notice if he wasn’t careful. “i couldn’t sleep. just went to, uh, just went to go on a walk. get some fresh air, you know?”

“do you understand how it felt to wake up with the bed cold and house empty?” harry’s voice broke, “your phone was still on the bedside table, you didn’t leave a note, nothing. you could have been dead for all i know.”

“i’m sorry. i intended to get back before you woke up but got distracted. i was… i was out. writing. people-watching, you know?”

“i guess so.” the younger boy sighed, softening, brushing the tears out of his eyes. “i was just scared, that, you know…”

“i know. i’m sorry for scaring you.” louis looked down as if he were a small child caught in the act of something naughty.

“it’s alright. just write me a note next time, yeah?” harry paused, “lou, your- your arms.”

he winced, cursing himself for not bringing a jacket with him, and being so stupid to not get back before harry awoke. “oh, um. sorry. i, i just forgot to wear another layer out. sorry you had to see that.”

“that’s not, that’s not the point. i just didn’t think- i was just surprised at how, how _recent_ some of those look. i mean, i know—“

“yeah. sorry. it’s less than usual, though. i’m getting better, haz. i promise. they’re from a few days ago.” and it was true; despite their angry red color, they were hardened and scabbed over, rather than soft crimson surrounded by blue that he’d usually find. “i, it’s okay. i actually, um. i finished my novel. i just have to get it all down on a word document and submit it as a manuscript. but it’s all written.”

worry still stayed prominent in harry’s features, but they’d receded a little, replaced with glowing pride. “i’m proud of you! i can’t wait to read it, love. you’re going to blow up, i feel it.”

he shifted in discomfort, still not used to the flurry of compliments that always came out of harry’s mouth, despite how often it happened. “it’s- it’s not that good. i don’t even know if i like it. i have to go back and fix it.”

“however it turns out,” harry said, “i know it’ll be good. because you wrote it. and i have trust in your writing ability. someday, i hope you’ll help me write a song.”

the ocean boy’s eyes widened at this, like he couldn’t believe what he heard. “you mean that? like, actually?”

“of course. only if you don’t mind, though.”

“i’ve actually been wanting to. i’ve been writing poems, and to hear that come out as a song would be incredible. as long as you like what i write, though. i don’t want to drag you down and sabotage your career.”

“never,” harry smiled, all remaining tension escaping his deep-set eyes, “never.”

“have you read anything by emily dickinson?” he asked, thinking back to the thin girl against the fountain. he winced a bit at the image of her illness (she, herself, _was_ the face of illness, he thought), but nevertheless tried to focus on the loosely-bound book.

“some bits. i’m not much of a poetry person.”

“ironic, coming from you, being a songwriter and everything. is song not just essentially poetry?”

“that’s why i’m asking for some of your help in the lyrics department. i was never great.” harry shrugged, still smiling. “the one i remember most poignantly, though, is _hope is the thing with feathers._ short, easy to read, straightforward. and romantic.”

“suits you,” louis breathed, “hope.”

“you too, to be honest.”

“no. no way. i’m quite the opposite.”

“have a bit of faith in yourself,” harry said, pulling the smaller boy closer to him, stroking his scabs with a single index finger, eventually tracing the rest of the scar on his arm, even the smooth, white ones. “things get better.”

“that’s what they always say.”

“they do, though. have they not?”

he thought about the progression of the past months he’d been with harry. he pursed his lips, this time not to mask his pain, but instead mask his shyness. “they have, i guess. you’re right.”


	55. salvation, not stagnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dandelion hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of eating disorder behavior, mentions of self harm, mentions of past abuse
> 
> hi guys, i'm back. sorry this took so long. sadness is a catalyst for creativity, it seems, and i've just been drilling out song by song by song. an ep is going to be out in the next month or so, if things go right. 
> 
> honestly, only 1 or 2 more chapters of this, and it'll be done. i'm going to start another one maybe a week or two after this is done as well. got an idea. thanks for staying the whole ride. let me know if what was once a slow process of recovery feels suddenly abrupt. 
> 
> my biggest supporters through this all have definitely been diaryofashydreamer, riyaaa, and ilovelouhaz on ao3 as well as alana, maddy, and marce. thank you all for everything. 
> 
> (tiana, if you're reading this, i love you)
> 
> even if you weren't mentioned and you're reading this, i'm immeasurably grateful that you've read this far. your comments mean everything to me. love you all. twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

the palace of versailles was much more grand than louis expected it to be, and much more romantic. it spanned from one end of his vision to another even as he stood something of a kilometer away, a clean stretch of stone covering the entire distance. there was grass cut in beautiful shapes and patterns surrounding large marble fountains filled with water so clear that it was almost completely invisible; like if he wasn't careful, he would have thought the angel statues to be spitting nothing but air. every bush was neatly trimmed like it was soap, molded by an artisan with just his fingers and palms. even the sky there felt different from how it felt just a bus ride away. it was lighter, thinner, more translucent. the more louis stared at it, the more unreal it looked, so breathable yet elegant. the interior was even more beautiful, with wispy threads of gold hanging from the walls.

louis felt he looked like a mindless tourist, breathless at even the smallest of details. around them were happy families, of five, of four. couples holding hands with children on their shoulders, of all different ethnicities. people speaking korean, thai, portuguese. it was beautiful, he thought, family vacations. of course, he had never gotten that luxury as a child, and would likely have had trouble enjoying it, anyway. sadness, for as long as he could remember, was a constant decay of the mind. it was especially bad during his adolescence, even at times he was supposed to enjoying himself.

a humorous thought, but as he tread on the gleaming white marble, he imagined himself unzipping his pants and soiling it all with dark urine. a horrendous image, it was, but luckily came and went at the same fleeting velocity. these intrusive thoughts proved themselves common throughout louis’ recovery, manifesting as a demonic child perching upon his shoulder, whispering charmingly with its flowery breath. _“throw the food against the wall,”_ it’d say, _“slam yourself into the window,” “hold the lighter to your haif,” “throw your wallet into the sea,” “rip your notebook to shreds and delete all the work you’ve been milling your ass off for.”_

the two boys spent the afternoon admiring the exquisite architecture of the palace, each pillar, each tile carved with the most attentive detail. so beautiful that it was almost nauseating, because nothing should have the right to look so perfect, to be tampered to such extremity. the way the palace looked and smelled and felt and tasted was how he wanted his writing to be—sophisticated yet endearing and comforting in its own way. he wanted to shape his words into complex meaning, _enchanting_ the reader, like nabakov would always say.

their flight back was scheduled for ten p.m., so they could spend their time leisurely strolling as much as they wanted and eat dinner with no hitches. french food was as amazing as everywhere on the internet and in travel pamphlets made it out to be, but the french did not have the same custom of listing calories counts across menus like london or even new york, which made louis more than a little uncertain about eating foods he wasn’t familiar with (how was he to know the calorie content of the _escargots au beurre persille_ that harry would inevitably insist that they try?).

and whenever he veered on the side of caution when it came to food, harry would frown and order something extra off the menu, insisting that he try it. the first time, it was a simple aperitif, then a starter soup, then an impossibly sweet dessert right when he thought he’d gotten by scot-free.

letting go was terrifying. of course, he tried to count as accurately as possible by mentally logging everything and googling the calorie content of foods he wasn’t familiar with, careful not to get caught by harry. it was on day three, that they’d went to a brasserie, and louis tried to sneakily google the calories of each ingredient of his bouillabaisse when harry stood up to go to the restroom and saw the bright search engine, louis swore he saw his life flash before his eyes. it wasn’t explosive anger, like the type jean presented on bad days at the smallest of triggers. it might have even been presumptuous to be thought of as anger at all—it was stony but not cold, unmoving like a mountain but not large like one. the boy remained mute and simply plucked louis’ phone from his hands, closed the tab, and opened a video of baby animals doing baby animal things.

“haz—“ louis fumbled, "i, it's not what you think it is, i—“

"it's okay. well, it's not. but i get it. takes time. i'm here for your through the whole process."

he pursed his lips, trying to swallow the shame that began to pool deep in his larynx. of course, harry had seen him during moments that were much more raw and unfiltered, but that didn't change the embarrassment that flooded him in the moment. "sorry. i'm fine, though."

"you will be."

"weren't you going to go to the bathroom?" louis pouted. the employees at the restaurant were beginning to stare at harry, who was still stood awkwardly beside the table, in the way of bussers scrambling to prepare seats for more clients.

"hell, yeah i do. i'm about to piss myself, right here and now." harry softened, running his fingers urgently through his heavy curls.

"go on then," louis rolled his eyes. "the piss isn't getting any younger."

"that doesn't even make sense," harry gently bumped the ocean boy's head before quickly drawing his hand back after realizing his mistake. he'd forgotten who he was dealing with; the trauma that came with every sudden movement and the fear that birthed itself with each word said with even the slightest change in tone. but louis didn't flinch like he usually would, he didn't harden himself for impact, he didn't squeeze his eyes shut as if blinding himself to the pain would also make it wane.

louis did not notice harry's apprehension, or if he did, he pretended not to. he only beamed so brightly that the younger boy thought it should be illegal, how uplifting just one smile could be. he was louis, not the sun, so why was it that everything he did contradicted these facts? "oh, shut up. you're going to get a uti at this rate."

harry sighed dramatically in mock exasperation and scurried past, not before glancing back at louis once he was sure he was out of sight, to make sure everything was settled and in order. he half-expected louis to go back to researching the calorie content of the meal, so when the phone was retrieved again, harry felt his stomach drop. this should have been expected, he thought, it's not like he could do anything about it in the long run, not while respecting his boyfriend's privacy. but it hadn't been a glowing number pulled up on louis' screen; it was, rather, the animal videos.

it was just one time out of the many that louis searched fervently for calorie counts that harry caught it, but he considered that, on its own, a victory. he deterred the boy from a single spiral that could have been a dizzy descent deeper into madness, and maybe louis would even find himself making a habit out of the healthier alternative.

on the trip back home, both boys felt surges of inspiration and excitement rush through them. the plane ride was just an hour and a half, but louis found himself writing even more during the time they waited at the airport, on the plane, and on the car ride back. harry would scold him for writing while on the road, as it would make him carsick, but the ocean boy simply laughed and continued on. he hadn’t even transferred the final quarter of his novel from his notebook to a word document, but he was already started more new projects.

and since harry had mentioned the idea of writing a song together, louis began scribbling down every little thought or idea for lyrics. they all seemed to reflect a single sentiment, but were versatile in the same way that they could be used for different moods and different tempos.

_“lay waste to my old soul, let go of that illusory control”_

_“when i looked death in the face, he said your name”_

_“manhattan took a part of me but i’ll give you the rest”_

it was nearly two in the morning when they actually returned home, having to deal with customs on top of baggage claim on top of harry insisting that he needed some pretentious, overly-sugary drink from the airport coffee shop of generic-brand coffee.

“tastes like london,” he said, smacking his lips and licking the foamy milk off of his upper lip.

“what, you mean like smog and shit-filled sewers?”

“oh, shut up. it’s heaven, now, compared to pre-industrial revolution.”

“yeah, what a miracle, piss isn’t congealing on the streets anymore.”

louis’ brazenness could be off-putting to the regular person, and sometimes harry felt strangers’ prudent glances picking each of their conversations apart, mistaking their casual interactions for dangerous disputes, but it was simply how they interacted; secret conversations in secret worlds where no one knew of how special they were. it was comforting, in a way, but also terribly lonely. “you’re a total smartass, you know that?”

"better than being a dumbass," louis taunted, still giggling, still holding harry's hand firmly, trying to unlock their door with the other.

despite most london nights being quite breezy, this one in particular was still; almost unsettlingly so. the overgrowth crawling up the walls of their home wasn't trembling like the wind usually made it, and it seemed that all signs of life had abandoned the town.

one of the many things louis loved about their place was the color of the streetlights, and how warm they were. they all glowed yellow, or some of the older ones, orange. it gave the beige sidewalks a kinder quality, like round, droopy eyes. ones like harry's, he supposed. sometimes, they’d darken so much that they’d appear brown, and louis loved those eyes, too. it was usually when he was angry that the color would flicker, in and out, in and out. louis thought it peculiar, how harry’s eyes would radiate warmth when anger overtook him, while jean’s grew cold, cold, cold.

he couldn’t quite describe the wave of clarity that washed over him as the scent of their home rushed into his nostrils, but god, this really was _home._ despite having just moved not even six months ago, he was already so accustomed to his everyday life in the condo—sleeping next to harry and waking up next to harry was a given, like breathing. the homely scent was a part of that, something he grew to love.

louis immediately booted up their shared desktop to type out the remainder of the story found in his notebook. it came quickly and inexorably, with even more vivid description than he had initially spelt out. harry would usually urge the boy to bed as night dripped into day, but he couldn’t bear to, not with louis’ fierce looking back and narrow shoulders working so hard on the dream he’d been chasing for so long. so when harry slept and woke and louis was still working, he only draped a blanket around his shoulders and offered him a cup of coffee, with milk and sugar.

he could tell things were getting better when louis graciously accepted the mug even with the sweetness infused in the familiar liquid, rendering the familiarity dysfunctional. louis drank it like it was nothing; too preoccupied by the task before him to worry about the calories. progress, harry recognized it to be (hoped for it to be).

the ocean boy called a publishing company as soon as his manuscript was complete, faxing the document to them and setting up for an appointment for the following week. he was excited, more so than he’d ever been, but also inescapably frightened of the results. he dreamt every night, not of matthew’s fingers stretching into his rectum, but of his work being thrown into the incinerator and being told that he had no potential.

days drifted past as such, with harry holding his hand through even the most humid of nights. he’d forgotten how unpleasant the air was in london, with its stifling nature and densely-packed toxins on just the other side of the wall. the worrying, he realized, made him far too tired drag himself out of bed to the bathroom floor to dig blades into his flesh. exhaustion wasn’t a stranger to him, but its strength felt much more poignant these days, so heavy in his bones that his blood felt like lead weighing down on him. he didn’t realize it until hours after the milestone had actually passed, that he hit five days without cutting or burning himself—longer than he’d been clean for years.

his exigence hadn’t slowed down despite being done with his first full work; every day, he found himself writing more and more, even getting started on his second novel as well as an anthology of poems rather than actually progressing with the coursework he had due. it was summer break, but there were seminars that he took part of, for whatever reason, he couldn’t recall. days were spent waking, cuddling harry, trying to swallow his food along with his fear, and writing.

anxiety, for whatever reason, made time pass simultaneously faster yet slower at the same time. there were moments where he’d find himself lost, wondering what day it was, surprised that the sun had gone down. there were moments where he’d just hold his breath and will life to pass, as the tick-tick of the clock seemed to grow more slow and more sluggish than it ever had. dizzying.

a week did in fact end up passing, as time does. he spent most of it curled up in harry’s arms, with the boy’s heavy legs wrapped around his abdomen, like some oversized koala bear. he found himself standing before the tall office building, stomach churning in both excitement and fear. it looked almost like tom’s office building, where he had gone just two days earlier, complaining about his fear of failing. of failing, and the almost-equivalent-in-magnitude fear of _succeeding._

he worried, that even in his success, he wouldn’t be happy. he worried that succeeding in doing the thing he loved would change absolutely nothing about his life, and only harden the ideology that he wasn’t meant to be happy, after all. as of late, he’d been marinating for even longer in the blind hope that maybe, just _maybe,_ happiness wasn’t so far after all. but if satisfaction from the publication of his work, as well as the praise from readers, wouldn’t be enough to quiet the storm that seemed everlasting in his mind, then what would?

the editor that inducted him was a thin man, balding, with glasses that looked too large for his face. they sat in a cubicle to discuss louis’ work.

“i think,” the man started, to which louis held his breath. “i think this has a lot of potential. just a few things that need fixing, scenes that need polishing. we’d love to sign a contract with you.”

he didn’t know what he expected; surely not to have the editor jumping up and down eagerness to take him in, but there was this vexing sense of disappointment that began to fester in his throat. the two of them spoke, correcting certain places where the transition or wording seemed odd, taking out descriptors that the editor (whose name was also, coincidentally, tom) called redundant.

“the reader won’t stick around if you use a page to describe every gust of wind,” he said. “there are times where you’ve just got to gather your bearings and move on.”

louis pouted. he was quite the romantic person and he found the extra ornaments to highlight this romanticism, though he understood what tom (what would he call him? editor tom? skinny tom? balding tom?) was saying; he was an avid reader, and while vivid description was, at times, nice, it was more often than not nauseating to read.

“also, i’d like to add, reading this, i wondered why there were so many ups and downs in the heroine’s, uh, mindset? it seemed very unstable at times. this isn’t a bad thing, per se, because her character remains consistent throughout, but one page she’ll be fine and the next, she’ll be injecting crystal meth into her veins while hyperventilating? it’s just very jarring to the reader, is all.”

 _oh,_ he thought. _wasn’t everyone like this?_ “um, i mean, people can just be that way, no? especially when their surroundings are ever-changing. they tend to be ever-changing, as well.”

“i see. i was just wondering if it was intentional or not,” skinny tom smiled. “i’ll fax you some potential edits, and the next time we meet, we can discuss that some more, see where to go from there. should be published in less than two months, with how things are going. i’ll get back to you via email about royalties when the topic comes up. all you have to do for today is sign this contract saying that you won’t write for any other publisher for a period of time, and a that portion of the money you make off of sales goes to us.”

he went home shortly after signing the contract without a second thought to a grinning harry. “i knew you’d do it, love. i knew it. you’re going to absolutely kill it.”

“we don’t know anything yet, harold. there’s still some things left to deal with before it actually goes out to the general public, and i have to fix it up some more.”

“don’t be so hard on yourself,” harry sighed, pulling the ocean boy close to him. louis’ softness made him melt a little; he was finally getting his boyfriend in full, less vacant and food-obsessed and empty-eyed. “they signed you after reading your first work. that’s amazing.”

“most people don’t even bring in a complete work, that’s why. they write a bit and bring it in to see if it’s good, and then finish it. they probably were just too nice to say no.”

“not those big money-hungry publishers. they’re trying to profit, not run a charity. trust me. you’re amazing, love.”

louis smiled softly. “thanks. i- i really do appreciate your support.”

“just as i appreciate yours.” harry paused. “you’ve been getting better lately.”

“it feels weird.” his voice came out as something closer to a puff of air than a coherent string of words, but harry caught them anyway. “not used to it. feels like i’m not allowed to be. good, that is. better.”

“of course you are. you’re deserving of it, like everyone else.”

louis didn’t fight this like he usually would. maybe it was simply because he was too tired to, or because he knew harry wouldn’t take no for an answer. either way, the younger boy saw the silence as not something heavy that clung to the atmosphere, but as a sort of salvation; proof that things _do_ indeed change, and fuck you, parmenides, the world is more than a stagnant blob of nothing.


	56. arethusa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> who, flying from the love of alpheus the river god, was turned into a fountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// purging , mentions of self harm , eating disorder thoughts
> 
> hi, sorry this took so long! brace yourself, the next chapter is the last. love you alllllll!!!!! thank you so much riyaaa for being so supportive. and maddy and alana and marce and sun :) i don't know how good this is, but i spent a lot of time on it. 
> 
> this is my bandcamp and my soundcloud, with my first release. next time you'll be hearing from it is when i have a full EP done. 
> 
> https://newworldofmine.bandcamp.com/releases
> 
> https://soundcloud.com/newworldofmine
> 
> i will start a new fic when i get around to it, but probably gonna chill for a little bit. i've been tired and my brain has been kinda mean which is awkward. trying my best, though. hope you guys are doing okay. 
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome
> 
> -

it was perhaps presumptuous of him to think even for a second that the "betterness" that he’d experienced would be permanent. he hoped, for just a second, that maybe things would be different, that nights wouldn't be as hard.

he ended up fixing all the parts that tom (skinny tom, that is. balding tom. editor tom.) had highlighted with bright pink highlighter; it was so bright that he thought he could feel his every individual vision receptor cell shriveling and dying. the editing process took long, far longer than louis ever imagined it to be, but he did finally drag his way through the grueling steps.

he never thought he would grow to hate his story, but maybe such a response was normal. every time he read his words, each of them lost more meaning and grew more disjointed. it was the overfixation that came with editing and revising that caused letters to contort into nothing more than meaningless shapes; ones that didn’t tell a story at all but instead looked like random splatters of ink on a page. revising, in more ways than one, felt more difficult that the initial regurgitation of thoughts on a notebook—a mental battle, if anything, of convincing himself that his work was still indeed adequate even after fifty rereads.

it got to a point where he feared that his writing would no longer sound like his own at all, after such tampering. he'd heard horror stories of publishers deconstructing an author's work to the point of unsalvageable degeneration, writing almost indistinguishable as that particular author's. he didn't want to be one of those people—the harder someone tries at appealing to an audience in a field as personal as literature, he knew, the less likely the general public will be to notice it. after all, everyone wants to be rich and famous and successful. there will always be those who try to pursue that more materialistically, but there is no audience more observant of such fine details than the general public.

and after the process of taking apart his sentences word by word, he had to settle matters regarding the actual aesthetics of the book, publication date, where it would go, the summary, etc. hardcover books, as louis saw it, were an art of their own; carefully chosen book jackets, title font, thread color, paper material, finish. it was more difficult than he expected, with the potency of his pickiness, his indecisiveness, to choose how he actually wanted his novel to look. the difficulty was partially a result of how downright unreal it felt, that his writing was going to be materialized from shitty notebooks in his ugly scrawl to proper, professional _books_ in the shelves of bookstores he never thought he'd find himself in.

he and skinny tom decided that simplicity would best fit the premise of his novel. the final product ended up having small font, silver thread for the binding, inside cover pages adorned by new york landscapes. the book jackets had matte finishes, raised red embellishments, small references to new york that only new yorkers would catch.

he still considered himself something of a new yorker even after all these years; he didn't share an accent, a hometown, or a background with most people there, but he felt he still knew the streets like he never even moved. when they had went to new york in february, he was almost surprised at how little the city had changed. he expected it to feel foreign again after not having walked the streets for nearly two and a half years, but as soon as he found himself in a place he recognized, he could feel his feet guiding him toward familiar places that once served as landmarks to him. the library. the corner store. the bread isle of some arbitrary kmart that he had a panic attack in (jean had called him on a thursday morning while he was out, yelling that they had no bread, becauae how _dare_ louis, how _dare_ he eat the final slice when he should have known jean would be hungry?).

of course, there were more buildings under construction that hadn’t been there years before, and things have indeed changed slightly, maybe even seemingly drastically to the untrained eye. but it was the same manhattan to louis, the same one that felt like his only escape two years prior. graffiti he'd taken comfort in were painted over, buildings were demolished and replaced; what was once an old school riddled with faded spray paint ( _"TIME IS A GATEKEEPER." "we who believe in freedom cannot rest." "find beauty in every mess.")_ had become a glossy office building, walls almost completely glass, twenty stories tall. despite everything, though, it was still new york, still _his_ new york.

by the time his book was completely ready for publication, the cicadas were gone and only remnants of the summer remained. it was growing terrifyingly close to a year since he'd first met harry (harry claimed that it had already been past a year since they met for the _very_ first time, but louis didn't want to count an instance that he didn't even look harry in the face properly as a true encounter). such reminded him again of how little time had _actually_ passed that they'd known each other, and he was much too far in, considering the short duration of their relationship.

the day it was published, he had a small signing event at local bookstore. he didn’t expect many people to be there for him, specifically, and he was right. new authors didn’t usually have that sort of luxury, and he wasn’t an exception. but there were many wandering bystanders who happened to stop by and purchase his book out of curiosity. a big success, skinny tom called it. publicity.

he told harry about it the night before nonchalantly. he didn’t think he cared so much about whether the boy would come, but after two of the three hours had passed, and harry wasn’t there, he began to grow unsettled. _there was no agreement,_ he told himself. _there was no agreement._ he didn’t know what harry could be doing at that moment, but he knew for a fact that the boy wasn’t busy. but he shouldn’t expect anything. that’s right. he shouldn’t expect anything.

it was stupid, but it reminded him of his time in high school, the play, and how his mother never showed. he, in his dramatic danny zuko outfit, hair all slicked back into something so tall and so defiant of gravity that he didn’t think was possible until these theatre girls he never spoke to before ran their fingers through it with this thick, powerful-smelling gel.

it was the final thirty minutes of the venue when harry came, panting, holding a loosely sealed starbucks cup with a paper straw. they were beginning to clean up, as workload was slowing down, and harry crashing in was so unprecedented that louis thought it was nothing but a fever dream.

“lou,” harry panted, as skinny tom stared at him incredulously. “fuck, i’m sorry i’m late. totally lost track of the time, but then really wanted to buy you a coffee, but the line was long as fuck and they messed up my order, and i honestly just wanted to _scream_ at how _slow_ everything was going. i didn’t want you to think i didn’t care or anything. i do. god, i do. i’m so fucking proud of you, i can’t put it into words.”

all the ocean boy could do was stare, fish-eyed, feeling tom’s heavy gaze. “i- you didn’t have to come,” he finally sputtered, “i know you care. you were the first to preorder the book, for fuck’s sake. and we get copies for free!”

“yeah, but not hand-signed,” harry teased.

“oh, shut up. in that case, you get my hand-signed notes every day.”

“this is different. i want to be, like, _there_ for the start of your career. like you were for mine. my first gig. my second one. and when we all went out partying afterward together. also, i figured you were tired, needing a pick-me-up or something. you also haven’t eaten lunch today. it’s three p.m., lou.”

“you got me coffee with cream. that thing’s white. practically only milk,” he pouted, forgetting momentarily that his editor was still beside him, wiping down tables and stacking papers, before composing himself. “i mean, i appreciate it regardless, but…”

“you need the energy. besides, sugar makes people happier. it’s scientifically proven.” harry frowned, but then smiled so widely, louis thought he was going to melt. his eyes crinkled in the way that they always did when the two of them woke up together, pulling each other close.

before he could say anything, however, tom interjected with a loud and very obviously intentional throat clear. “so, uh. i don’t believe we’ve met before? i’m tom folsing, louis’ assigned editor.”

harry turned to the man, like he’d just noticed him for the first time. “ah. i’m harry. louis’ um, his, erm. his partner.” his face turned a bright red, endearingly so, metastasizing all the way up his cheeks to his ears and down to his neck.

louis felt himself conflicted with the contradictory feelings of being warmed by harry's beautiful shyness, as well as shame welling up in the back of his throat; not shame because of harry, but because of himself. his "man-made" sexuality. not that tom would know, but the idea of it still felt bare-chested and painful. a reminder of what he was.

and really, maybe it was because of the lack of sex present in their relationship, but louis failed to see harry as a _man_ most of the time. he hardly even thought about being _gay_ or _queer_ or anything like that. he'd forget, at times, that he lived in a heteronormative society.

to his relief, though, tom only smiled calmly, unperturbed by the sudden information. "nice to meet you. louis has been an absolute pleasure to work with, and you two seem wonderful together."

the redness of harry's skin lingered for a while, but receded slightly at tom's light reaction to the news. "likewise. i've heard plenty about you." he nudged the ocean boy slightly. "drink your coffee. the straw's going to go soft. it's paper."

"you're making me do drugs," he retorted, but nonetheless took a small sip. just that alone seemed to be enough to bring his stomach back to life, because he was then suddenly aware of how hungry he had been, stomach gnawing at the rest of his organs like it was something feral, untamed. he wanted to down the entire venti cup in full, but refrained, willing his stomach to quit, or even simply just grow quiet enough so that harry's keen ears wouldn't hear the loud gurgles. "i think, i think that's enough. not that hungry."

harry's eyebrows knit together and his mouth opened to say something until louis gestured urgently to tom, now counting cash and checks no longer paying attention to the conversation, as if begging harry not to expose him, not here, not now. “alright,” the boy said cautiously, “we can figure something out when we get home then.”

louis could feel tom sensing the discomfort that lodged itself between the three of them, thickly in the air, because he told them that things were pretty much wrapped up, and that they could head out now, if they wanted. that the bookstore would deal with the tables and the sales, and that the royalties from today would be sent to louis at the end of the month.

the walk home was harry rambling on about dinner possibilities, which louis tuned out from. he’d been doing so well; with food, with nighttime thoughts, with confidence, that when the thoughts returned, he was almost forgetting how to fend them off. and it wasn’t like they hadn’t been there at _all,_ prior to this moment, but he’d just been so tired, so preoccupied by other things, that he didn’t have the time to give his urges any of his attention at all.

but right now, it was guilt that took ahold of him. guilt about improving, like the past few weeks were nothing but a fever dream, a lapse in judgement, where he stupidly allowed himself to believe that this was all _okay._

“lou?”

he jumped at the sudden call of his name. “yes?”

“like i was saying. how do you feel about tacos?”

“oh. yeah, that sounds good.”

harry studied him, and he could practically _hear_ his worry, even over the bustling of the rest of the city. it felt like too much; too much going on, too much for him to process. “are you okay?

“yeah. yeah, why?”

“i don’t know, you just seem out of it.”

he sighed, swallowing the dark feelings, summoning all the energy he had remaining in him after the long morning. “i’m fine. just a bit tired from talking to so many people. and overwhelmed from the first day of publication. you know, normal things.”

“yeah, i get that. let me know if you need anything,” harry said, and he seemed to be thoroughly convinced, so louis let out a breath of relief. the last thing he needed right then was a tall green-eyed boy hovering over him. they’d just recently stopped the tradition of hand-holding during and after meals, and he wasn’t planning on losing that trust again. he could deal with this alone, at least for the evening.

dinner was hard—he ate everything so as to not spark suspicion, but feeling the food in his stomach felt so alien once more, like the months of progress behind him didn’t happen at all. the descent into madness wasn’t even scary; it was more comforting. familiar.

but he couldn’t exactly rush to the bathroom after dinner, either. even though harry didn’t have him in his clutches, it would be far too awkward and far too obvious if he were to beeline to the toilet, not with his track record. the funny thing was, he thought, despite it having been quite literally _months_ since he last purged, but just looking at his hands was enough to know that his fingers would fit so comfortably in his throat.

it was thirty minutes later, when harry retired to his office (louis would usually go with him to just share comfortable silence, each working on different things in a shared space) that he went to his, as well. harry asked him if something was wrong or if something had changed, but he just dismissed everything by saying that he needed a break from people, which was completely understandable after his long day. they parted ways very seamlessly, almost so seamlessly that it bothered the ocean boy, like he wanted some sort of rebuttal from harry, like he wanted him to magically just _know_ something was wrong, but he got nothing.

he was able to slide into the bathroom after another forty minutes with no problems; harry had gotten into the zone of writing more music, which meant that he was in a completely different world than the mortal—a place where nothing else existed, untouchable, where the only things that remained were his voice and his instruments.

he stared at the toilet bowl and it felt like it was staring back at him, with its unnaturally clear water and stained porcelain, as if taunting him. toilets were only slightly different in different buildings; they all had to adhere to the standard, and he usually didn’t notice the small differences when he used the restroom normally. when he was bent over, however, so vulnerably on his knees, the discrepancies were made so glaringly obvious, it stunned him how he never noticed before.

unlike his old place, the seat of their new toilets were heavier, thicker. the glazed windows made everything feel a bit more foggy as the light from the streetlamps outside bled in. the toilet lid was made of porcelain, like the rest of it, and not plastic like the one he had at his old apartment. there was something about that plastic that he ended up growing attached to, like its cheapness reflected who he really was, his misery, his pain.

the food came out much easier than he expected it to, despite having passed so much time since he ate. he didn’t even particularly drink much water, compared to normal, he thought. maybe even the food was itching to exit his system, knowing that it was too much for him.

he returned to his workspace and actually began working, now that he could focus. harry was still shut in his office, working, he assumed. louis learned with time, that in many ways, harry was almost as much, if not more, of a workaholic than he was, especially if it was regarding music. allow the boy to pick up his guitar, and he won’t set it down for hours.

evening grew into night, and he continued acting as if nothing was wrong, because nothing was, really. nothing was wrong. if anything, he just came to his senses. not a big deal.

he and harry used to watch a couple episodes of a show before bed every night, but they’d recently broke that tradition due to the sheer fact that neither had much time at all, and where simply so tired by the time that everything was over, that even watching a show seemed like too much mental stimulation.

there were, of course, times where louis was grateful for this, but others where he just felt so irrevocably lonely. he was someone that thrived off of rigidity, and having such a schedule sometimes would ground him, reminding him that he always had someone to go home to.

louis tensed, sensing harry’s footsteps coming up behind him after the creaking of the door (a reminder to oil the hinges, he noted). “lou? still working?”

his words somehow got caught in his throat, still hoarse from the irritation. “i- yeah. just getting some stuff done. how are you? how is your project coming along? you should really take a break, you know.” he tried to compensate for the rasp of his voice by speaking more, as if he could pull it out of himself forcibly.

“it’s going okay,” harry said carefully. louis could tell that he caught onto the weird behavior but was reluctant to jump to conclusions. “how’s about we watch some criminal minds tonight, just to unwind? we’ve both been working hard enough.”

“oh,” he was somewhat startled by the proposal, not expecting the boy to remember something like that, not with everything going on. _say no,_ he thought, _say no. if you spend too much time with him, he’ll catch on that you managed to fuck up. again._ “um, that’s alright. i think there’s a bit more i want done before wrapping up.”

“i’ll wait for you.”

 _curse him for being so understanding. so stubborn._ “it’s okay. you need rest, haz.”

“as do you.” the boy coughed, “you’ve been up since six in the morning, and you’re _still_ working. don’t you think that it’s too much?”

“i’m fine.”

“nope, we’re watching something tonight, whether you like it or not.”

harry’s hand closed around his wrist, firmly but not tightly. the touch was so kind, so warm that he wanted to shrink in on himself again. he didn’t deserve this, not after all the lying he’s done. his thighs itched with desire. _punishyourselfpunishyourselfpunishyourself._

he couldn’t quite understand why it was that today in particular went so badly. it was the start of his career, his debut. it should have been a day of celebration, but it all felt so bleak. so lonely. his chest felt inexplicably tight, so tight that he could feel his breath hitch in his throat, and they were walking up the stairs, still hand in hand, when he felt his knees give way under him.

“what’s wrong?” harry was quick to be down by his side, looking for signs of discomfort, and _god,_ he felt so guilty, so _wrong_ for making the boy worry about him like that. “do you need anything? water?”

“i’m-“ he choked, lungs failing him again, “i’m fine. just—“

“shh, breathe. take it slow, lou. i’m here.”

he was dizzy now, unable to feel his hands or his lips or his face of his neck, looking for the ground to plant his feet in, because it definitely wasn’t under him. “i’m, i’m fine. just give- give me, give me a second.”

“right.” harry stepped away, worry still apparent in his eyes, or at least he assumed so, because he could see nothing but the blur of his tears and his hands trying to cover everything piece of light that asserted itself in his vision.

when he finally gathered himself in what felt like ages, he stood, still wobbly, realizing that they were still on the stairs. “sorry about that. i’m okay. just, just stressed, is all. don’t worry about it.”

“are you sure? if you don’t want to watch criminal minds, we can watch something else. and, i mean, i’m here for you, always. and if, you know, you’re having a hard time, i’m here. to just listen, even. to cuddle.” harry stuttered, but even that, in its own way, was comforting.

“thanks,” he replied, debating with himself whether to tell harry everything or not. “um, i…” he took a deep breath, so deep that he felt the air reach from his lungs all the way to his feet and back up again. “sorry. i’m just having a hard time. i, uh. fucked up.”

“what do you mean? did something happen?”

he braced himself, readying for impact. even now, he’d get visions of harry slinging a hand against his face. “i- i purged. earlier. i’m sorry.” _god, you sound stupid, tomlinson. it’s not that deep. you purged, big fucking deal. like you didn’t do it three times a day just months ago._

before harry even said anything, louis felt arms close around him. big, warm, safe. tight, but not constricting. “i’m sorry i didn’t notice earlier,” he breathed. “i knew you were acting off, but i thought that was just because you were tired.”

“it’s okay. it’s my responsibility to ask for help, anyway. it’s not like you can read my mind, or anything.”

“yeah, but i wish i could.”

“you can’t, though.”

they fell silent, still in each other’s arms, until louis felt the boy run his arms under him, scooping him up like he was a child. “we’re going upstairs. in bed. watching grease. no complaints. i’m not sleeping until you sleep.”

“you’re tired, though,” he whined. “you need rest.”

“and you do too. you’d be lying if you told me you didn’t think about _that,_ right?”

louis winced, knowing exactly what he was referring to. “i guess. but it’s better now, i promise.”

“still, this is my decision, and there’s not a chance in hell that you’re changing my mind. besides, i’m buzzing. i had a can of redbull earlier.”

“you’re a dumbass, you know that?”

“ _your_ dumbass.”

“fuck off, you’ve used that line like six too many times.”

harry laughed, “and i’ll keep using it.”

he didn’t know exactly when he fell asleep, but it was sometime during the part of the movie where all the characters went to the school dance. he didn’t know if harry stayed awake for the remainder of the movie or slept right along with him, but he woke the next day to the same long eyelashes and mess of a curly head, tv static still playing.

for some reason, he thought that all the bad feelings would disappear magically, but they hadn’t, and that was okay. maybe they would never fully leave him alone, but it did, in fact, get easier, just a bit. he never thought it would, and always told himself not to hope for anything or to get too comfortable, because happiness is fleeting like everything else in life, but there were definitely times where he could confidently say he was happy. and maybe that alone was enough.


	57. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the passing of time is truly so, so tiresome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of past trauma
> 
> hi, this is kind of bittersweet. i'm glad to be done, but thank you so much for all the love you all have shown this fic. i'm going to spend the next couple of weeks editing everything, then hopefully start another one. i have a pretty good idea.
> 
> i currently have four songs recorded. anyone following my music should be hearing from me soon. i do apologize for how long this chapter has taken as a result of juggling so many things at once. i question the quality of my writing and my music on top of academics and just in general what my endgame is. but i've got time; we all do. 
> 
> again, thank you so much for following all this time. i cannot put into words how much you all mean to me. riyaaa, diaryofashydreamer, ilovelouhaz, ellie, sun, maddy, alana, marce, tiana. you guys are the best. those on ao3, if you would ever want to reach out to me, i would be happy to speak with anyone.
> 
> twitter: @louflymehome  
> discord: chae#5529  
> soundcloud, bandcamp, (eventually) spotify: newworldofmine
> 
> -

they no longer live in the london condo; instead now residing in a large house they own all to themselves. harry insisted, when they were looking for a new flat, that they could still keep the condo for sentimental purposes, but louis only smiled lightly and said that it would be a waste, not only of their money, but to have such a beautiful place be uninhabited most days. better to allow it to continue along its own course of life, to allow someone newer, fresher, to break it in once more.

surely enough, just a week after they had vacated it, a single woman in her early twenties moved into the condo. years later, it is no longer just a single woman, but a her and her two children—identical little daughters with thin blonde hair pulled into two identical little pigtails on either sides of the heads. louis still walks there every once in a while, on tougher evenings and even tougher nights, and the place always seems so alive. he wonders, at times, how a single mother can manage to raise such energetic children all on her own, without killing a single spirit; one of her children's or of her own. but their spirits all seem very much intact, though he reckons he can't know for sure. after all, they've never talked to or visited the family; too busy or too shy or too nostalgic, they couldn't tell. perhaps it was a combination of all of them.

some nights, rare ones, when the mother cannot be found in what was once their study, and the entire area is pitch black, with no lights shining through the windows, louis can see shadows of their younger selves frolicking about in the kitchen, slow dancing and laughing and holding each other, repeating and hoping that this really would last forever.

and other nights, the more ruthless ones, he asks harry to come with him, to sit atop the hill together, watching the skyline against the moonshine. it calms him, reminds him of the times that he truly believed that things would never get better.

in a sense, he thought, maybe they haven’t, because he still considers himself somewhat of the same person as before. because, sure, there are times that he considers himself happy, truly _happy,_ but never recovered. he tells himself that he doesn’t know exactly what _recovery_ constitutes, and he would never give himself an adjective that he doesn’t understand. _recovered._

nightmares have, however, grown fewer and further between. they were of lesser intensity than before, too. on occasions, he still sees _handshandshands,_ but when he wakes, it is harry that lies before him, and not the faceless men that he’d always been used to expecting. he’s almost never in the squirmy state he found himself constantly in two decades before, recoiling at harry’s touch. instead, he draws himself closer on these nights, letting arms slink around him and curling his head into the crook of harry’s neck.

they are now fifty-three and fifty-one respectively. louis learned months after he turned fifty after sulking for hours a day about how he was now “old,” that these years were not going to be slow at all; rather, they were going to be the final years he could call himself “young.”

and, three years later, he is indeed embracing his youth, as he likes to see it. some might say he is desperately clinging onto it, but even just a decade down the road, he knows that he would regret not doing so now.

it astounds him, really, how far he's made it and how many years he's lived. every year past fifteen, he'd told himself that _this_ would be his last year alive, but the seasons would change and he'd watch himself age yet he still remains on earth. harry tells him every year on his birthday that he is a gift given to the world for every second he lives, and to take such a thing away would be nothing short of a crime.

he has now published five books, sixth in the making. his first release was lackluster in audience reception, but it was his second one that topped the charts. approaching thirty years old, it was a difficult wall to climb, especially with harry's sudden global fame. he's always been told that fame doesn't happen overnight, but that's truly how it seemed with harry. he swears that one night, harry was known only by some, and come morning, by everyone.

this is success that he never even dared to dream about obtaining as a teen. he is content most days and happy with his now-husband. they are living comfortably in a large villa overlooking the cityscape, and even own a vacation homes in los angeles and in new york. they have a dog named lillian, a large, fluffy saint bernard whose drool always finds a way to nestle itself in louis' clothes and hands and food, but it's endearing and harry always laughs about how lillian gets overly excited by just the sound of louis' footsteps, smaller and lighter against marble, always wrapped in socks; contrary to harry's bare feet.

it's not all smooth, of course. like the cracked ceilings of their old condo, louis sometimes finds himself deep in the rut he digs himself in. these are nights when he can't bring himself to get up, much less walk up the hill behind their house to sit and breathe, in fear that maybe his feet will bring him to the bathroom out of sheer habit, and he would not be able to stop himself after the bright lights slap him across the face, white and unyielding and cold.

harry is not always there, either, with his career that has been taking ahold of the last two decades of their lives. louis comes on tours at times, but it is not always possible due to work conflicts or due to his dislike for travel. the first few times he spent weeks at once alone were hard, but as soon as harry found out of these troubles, he began calling every night after his shows, and insisting that they remain on the phone until louis drifts off to sleep. it is a tradition they still hold to this day; always saying goodnight to each other despite time zones or sleep schedule. to say the least, he finds it comforting.

he tells harry nearly everything, except for one specific thing he does to calm himself when things get hard and he is alone. the kitchen cupboards in their home are quite large, like most things they own (a result of having more money than they know how to deal with), so louis is able to fold into himself and fit in a cabinet like he is taking refuge from bombardment. he always surrounds himself with harry's clothes and his cologne, scattering seemingly random clothing items around him. it acts as closure to him when the world becomes too much and spins too fast; a world where only he exists, and harry is with him.

he sometimes has irrational fears that harry's planes will crash, that he will send him off too lightly, causing the powers to somehow misalign and him smacking harry on the back of the head, telling him to “get on with it,” will be their last interaction. he wonders how he would function without harry. he wouldn't, he supposes. he'd exist, as that is all he's really learned how to do in the past three decades, but he wouldn't live-- not really. sometimes, he has nightmares of losing harry in lieu of the usual hands all over his body or insurmountably large number on the scale, and he swears that it is worse than anything else he's ever experienced. he figures, still, he would take all the pain in the world if it meant harry would never have to.

they still haven't had sex. for harry's sake, louis upholds the offer of such a possibility nearly every night they are together, even when he can feel the exhaustion inject itself into his bloodstream and weigh his veins down like they are filled with cold, hard lead. and harry always shakes his head and pulls him close, careful not to touch anywhere below the waistline, telling him how loved he is, despite the absence of sex.

there was one point when he could sense the scent of another man lingering in harry's clothes after a long night out, which louis found himself out cold before harry returned; and he can deduce now that harry did not return until after daybreak, because by the time he fell asleep he remembers he could hear the birds begin to sing outside.

harry somehow sensed that louis knew, too, but nothing really changed. he acted more tender around the ocean boy, movements almost apologetic, but louis couldn't blame him. he'd been withholding such an attractive person who could probably get any girl or guy from sex, after all. such an occurrence was only inevitable.

that is not to say that louis was not bothered by this at all, but he knew and he still knows that it is he himself that suggested harry do such a thing in the first place. they never addressed it; still haven’t, and louis wonders now if there have been more instances that he has simply been unaware of, but he tries not to think about it. human libido is truly an odd thing; driven by the innate instinct to reproduce, but the whole “two keys and no lock” ordeal renders it all useless, he thinks bitterly.

and it is not that he is a bitter person; he holds nothing against harry, and would likely be unable to remain mad over anything. he is lucky that harry is such a gentle soul, because he knows that he is the type to allow himself to blindly follow someone without regard to his own wellbeing. past events have proved this.

it’s times like these that convince him that maybe he has not truly changed in the past thirty years as much as he is told he has; tom (fat tom, therapist tom) is still seeing him once a week or once every two weeks, depending on his schedule, and their sessions always end up pointing toward how far he has come, especially in recent years. he believes it, for the most part, at least.

the wind is cold against his face as he allows his weight to rest against the iron wrought fences. he reckons that now would be a good time to head home, but at the same time, he knows that returning home would mean going back to an empty house, far too hollow for his liking. these days feel lonelier than most; he receives a brief _goodnight_ from harry, who is currently on the other side if the world, but due to time constraints and busy schedules, it would be simply implausible and selfish for him to ask for more time and more comfort. he is usually still awake when harry's work is done, able to hear the birds chirp from outside and eyes heavy from the leftover tiredness accumulated from his years of missed sleep, but he never even considers it a possibility to call harry, or even make him aware of his consciousness.

tonight must be some special occasion, because the two girls and the mother are all gathered around each other, light flowing through the dark contrast of the sky. they were laughing about something, so heartily and so constantly that louis feels so close even as to be able to imagine himself with them as an older brother, like he always wished how he and lottie and fizzy were during their childhood.

his mother was too absent for such a thing, though, and his mind was too removed from the physical world that he could not truly pursue the communion he wanted. he knows that now, and he knows that he knew that before, but the idea remains overwhelmingly lonely.

he became motherless at the age of twenty-four, after her body succumbed to the illness. he hadn't expected to be as upset as he was; if anything, he expected to feel much more numb, with how his relationship had always been with his mother. calling himself a caretaker would be stretching it, even. it was and had always been closer to nonexistent.

he remembers the resounding heaviness that paved its way through his chest at the moment he received the call. it wasn't that it was particularly unexpected, but he hadn't thought that it would be so _soon._ there is still a heaviness that comes with thinking about his mother, and he understands sometimes that such sentiments are completely valid; and others, he is not so sure.

there is a shrike impaling a small rodent on the end of a branch; it holds it with one of its legs and steadies it with its beak. the sun is now slowly letting light pass from behind the hills, and the dark sky is gold around the edges. only then, does louis realize how late it is, or early, in some regards. he understands now why watercolor is used so often in art, like in many of the pieces he'd seen in moma when he first went with harry so many years earlier. he still fails for forget that trip, he knows, because it was so special, he considers it something of a turning point in his life. he still travels, especially with his work and with harry's work, but it's not felt the same since.

he wonders if jean has seen his name on bookshelves and remembers who he is—he did choose not to use an alias after all. he is and was and will always be louis tomlinson. it was harry that decided to change his last name, though his stage name remains harry styles, for both publicity and privacy purposes, whatever that is supposed to mean. they are a public in their relationship, but both harry and his management came to the conclusion that staying as "harry styles" would be the best bet. louis is not bothered by this, but sometimes his thoughts gnaw at his conscience, whispering that this is harry's desperate attempt to not get too close, in case they were to ever split.

by the time he returns home with his unsteady gait, the sun is fully visible in the sky and it is warm, at least, warmer than before. as warm as it can be in the final days of september. his steps echo against the walls. the slap-slapping of rubber soles against marble feels so much louder than it ever has. it is times like these he misses the old condo the most. he loves the villa, of course; it, too, has been the heart of many happy memories with harry. though, the condo was much smaller and more carpeted and less lonely.

he can hear nails against the marble too, so he braces himself for lillian to fling herself at him, the large dog she is. she tends not to realize her size and power, more often than not knocking louis over during his arrivals home. she is salivating out of excitement and her breath is warm-- louis can feel it against his face as she is propped up on his torso. the smell of peanut butter clouds his face and judgement and mind briefly until he gently backs away from her. her tail is still swinging from left to right to left again rapidly, almost too quick for his eyes to follow, and he finds a smile forming against his cheeks despite the overwhelming loneliness that took ahold of him just minutes earlier.

"why do you smell like peanut butter? did you get into our pantry?" he chuckles tiredly, running his fingers through the fur surrounding lillian's cheeks and ears. "you know not to do such a thing. what's gotten into you?"

and he knows, he always knows; he has developed a skill over the years of being able to sense harry's presence. so he is not surprised when before him is suddenly the same green eyes and curly hair he fell in love with so many years before. "welcome home," a voice says, and it is deeper and huskier than he remembers, like the past thirty years of his life had passed so quickly he hadn't the time to process it all.

"you're early. i thought you were coming home tomorrow. you said you were coming home tomorrow."

“i know,” harry smiles, creating deep lines that are like grooves at the corners of his eyes and around his dimples. it’s a reminder of their age, but harry’s dimples are more prominent than they’ve ever been, so louis figures it is okay. they both worry about growing old and useless and immobile at times, but harry has been working to adopt louis’ mindset of embracing youth, not forcing it. “i wanted to see you earlier. and i wanted to surprise you.”

“well, you certainly got your goal,” he says, pulling the boy close. he’s not a boy anymore, neither of them are, he realizes. but it still seems so unfamiliar to think of themselves in such a way.

“you were out for a really long time. i actually got home at around two in the morning. i wanted to cuddle with you in bed,” harry frowns. “it’s cold out. fall is approaching. you’ll catch a cold.”

“i’m fine,” louis says, backing away. “just lost track of time. thinking, you know?”

“about?”

they remain silent; a habit of theirs that seems to have not left even after such passing of time. it is with soft, careful touches that they communicate, as soon as louis indicates that it is okay to do so, harry leans into him with his arms held open. “just didn’t feel like coming home when you’re not around.”

“but i’m here. and lillian’s here. aren’t you, lili?” harry coos, in a way that he is unable to resist from smiling after.

“how would i know that you were coming home early?”

“i thought we shared a single brain cell.”

the good thing about the marble floors and countertops, louis thinks, because it reflects nearly everything the sun pumps into it, which then shines onto harry’s face, giving him this angelic glow. and _god,_ it comes back to him all over again how he fell in love in the first place. “you’re right. i’m a fake boyfriend for not being able to anticipate your arrival despite you having told me the exact date that you’d be back.”

“i always try to be a bit early, though.”

“i’ve learned not to get used to such a thing. or i’ll start expecting it.”

“isn’t that the point?”

“no, because expectations take the pleasure out of surprises.”

harry runs his fingers through louis’ soft, still feathery hair despite the peppers of silver scattered about his scalp. “i’ll always pull through, though. do you not trust me?”

“i do.”

it felt good to say, really. of course, it is not the first time that he realizes this trust built between them, but he grows suddenly hyperaware of the security of their relationship. he has still not gotten used to such security; it feels foreign and wrong and uncomfortable, and he doesn’t know if he will _ever_ allow himself to become accustomed to such a warm, fleeting thing, but he tries—every day, he thinks, is more and more proof that the past thirty years of his life have not been a mistake, but his largest pride and joy.


End file.
